


If You Go Into the Woods Today

by ConsultingHound



Series: Magic AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink is vaguely mentioned, Apart from not really, Crime Scenes, Fairy John, Fairy Lestarde, Fairy Molly, Fairy Sally, Fluff, Like Whoa, M/M, Magic, Molly is a cutie, Sally is trying to do her job, Teen Sherlock, Teenagers, and yes actual plot going on, but its close enough, but taking a lot of liberties with the plot, im a sucker for cliffhangers, needed something to outweigh the amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored stuck at his family estate and so decides a trip into the woods may alleviate some of the boredom. What he finds, however, may be more than he bargained for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw flower crowns on tumblr and that got me thinking of magical creatures and well, this sort of happened...  
> Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock was bored.

That’s how most of these things start isn’t it? With Sherlock being bored and doing something stupid.

This particular something stupid took the form of a teenage Sherlock walking across the high rocks near to his family's estate, explicitly because Mycroft had told him not to go through the forest by himself. Idiot; he was 17, nearer to an adult than a child.

What could possibly be of interest in the forest anyway? They were in the middle of Suffolk for God’s sake. It wouldn’t be as boring if there was anything in the woods instead of the useless badgers, squirrels and assorted birds. Bears, now there was an animal _worth_ observing. But, alas, he was stuck with a milder variation of wildlife.

Also sheep. Lots and lots of sheep. Why his family had decided to live near a farm was beyond him but there it was and no amount of sulking would shift Mummy’s position and so there they were likely to remain. God, he hated sheep. Sherlock had lived under the impression that they were the embodiment of stupidity until he’d purposefully said so to one when he was 9. It then proceeded to chase him up into a tree and Mycroft had to come and fetch him down, a fact he hadn’t let Sherlock forget. After the incident, he’d always kept as far away from the farm as possible, hence another reason why the woods were preferable to anywhere else in the grounds.

After a few moments clambering, he was balanced precariously on one of the highest boulders, looking down at the rolling, green countryside.

Calm. Peaceful. Not a person for miles.

Hateful, _Hateful,_ **_Hateful_.**

Luckily, he was only being imprisoned here for as long as it took Mycroft and Mummy to get annoyed and send him back to boarding school for the new term.

Then he would be free again and it would be brilliant, skiving classes and running through London. His beautiful, brilliant city. His kingdom. But first he had to get out of here and to do _that_ , he had to piss off Mycroft without him realising that he was being pissed off on purpose.

“Excuse me but will you get down from there!”

Sherlock whirled round. Interesting. The person was hidden behind the trees but the voice rang clearly to where he was stood.

“Why should I?”

The person sighed. “Because you could get hurt up there, you great idiot.” It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. Must everyone treat him as a child?

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“Well you look like a child to me,” the frankly irritating voice replied. Fine. Fine! He’d get down off the stupid rocks and go speak to the unknown person face to face.

He scrambled down, perfectly balanced off the first few rocks. However, there was a slight puddle that wasn’t full factored in and well-

“Ow,” Sherlock shouted, looking at the cut on his right forearm. It wasn’t bad but it still stung and it was bleeding. He sighed and decided he was going to have to sacrifice his scarf.

“Oh my gods, are you okay?” Just like that, a man was in front of him, the holder of the voice. He was only slightly taller than Sherlock, with ruffled silvering hair (despite his apparent youth, he was about Mycroft’s age by Sherlock’s assessment) and warm brown eyes. He was also wearing a green tunic and tan ¾ lengths. He also appeared to have glittering, paper thin wings behind him, in a dark shade of green, like an evergreen tree.

“Hello? Please tell me you didn’t hit your head, oh please. I’ve really got some important stuff to do and I can’t deal with a concussion as well.”

"I’m not sure. You _look_..." Sherlock trailed off.

"Yes?" The winged man looked warily.

"Well, you look almost like an oversized _fairy_. You have wings," Sherlock waved a hand in explanation. Maybe he did hit his head. He hoped the damage wasn’t permanent. Or maybe it would prove an interesting psychological study.

"Fairy, huh? Is that what your lot are calling us now?" The man/ fairy/ unknown entity asked, looking annoyed.

Sherlock frowned. Clearly this creature was not as unfamiliar to him as he was to it.

"What else have you been called?" he asked.

"Oh, they change every week or so. Imp, Pixie, Sprite, Gnome! Can you believe it? What about this," he gestured to himself, "screams garden dwelling mud scraper with fewer manners than a bothered badger? Even been called a Hobbit once. That's one of your lots creations isn't it?"

Sherlock had to confess he had never heard of a 'Hobbit' before but no one else was to know that, especially this entity, so he nodded and then asked, rather exasperated, "Well what _are_ you then?"

"I am not a what! I am a _who_ I will have you know. My name is Greg Lestrade, Defender of the realm. Who or what are _you_?"

Sherlock drew himself up to his full, (nearly) domineering height. "Sherlock Holmes, World’s Only Consulting Detective." He was fairly sure that it was only a matter of time; if only the Yard took him more seriously.

“Hmmm, haven’t heard of one of those before. I should probably bring you in, get that cut looked at,” Lestrade speculated.

“What?”

But he didn’t get an answer and Lestrade was already striding towards the woods. Well, it certainly beat standing around all day and this new _thing_ , for want of a better definition, was the most interesting occurrence since last term's dissection module.

“What does a Consulting Detective do exactly?” The unexpected question broke the silence. Sherlock had been trying to deduce the person in front of him ( _rather difficult not knowing the species, though not impossible_ ) and, more importantly, where they were going ( _they were headed North East, away from the house, which in Sherlock’s opinion was perfectly fine_ ). Sherlock suspected that he was being mocked but Lestrade actually looked curious.

“Well when the people are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” He braced himself for the derisive or incredulous looks but the ‘hmm’ that followed was more speculative.

“So what do they consult you on?”

Sherlock was slightly taken aback but answered, still cautiously, “Problems and Puzzles are what I prefer. Murder cases are my favourite.” See what he made of that.

“You’re like a defender then?” At Sherlock’s confused expression, Lestrade amended, “I think you call them Police? Is that right?”

“In a way. But the police are often idiots. They won’t let me consult properly.”

“Hey, don’t insult them. That’s like calling me an idiot.” Sherlock made a noise that must have sounded like an affirmative. He felt the hit round the head was unnecessary.

The silence returned but it was less tense than before. There wasn’t a discernible path that he could see but Lestrade seemed to be calm. He suspected that there was another way for these people to find their way around the forest, possibly heightened senses, to an animal like level, though whether this was sight or smell Sherlock couldn’t tell. However, he didn’t rule out familiarity with the path and surrounding area as a possible cause. He usually preferred to work out the problem himself but without the necessary data it was useless. Finally conceding that he would have to ask Lestrade, he was just about to turn to him when something else caught his eye. Through the trees, there were sounds like a city, bustling away and a light pattern that suggested a clearing. But Sherlock wasn’t focusing on that.

What he was focusing on was the figure illuminated directly in front of them.

He had cropped blonde hair and was a head smaller than Lestrade. He held a similar stance, suggesting the same ‘defender’ background but was holding a woven bag that looked suspiciously similar to a medical kit from the symbol on the front. His skin was tanned, probably from the amount of time spent in the sun and his ears had a pointed edge that, looking at Lestrade, seemed to be a common feature. His wings, still paper thin, were a deep blue, like the ocean in early evening. Whereas Lestrade looked more Mycroft’s age, John appeared to be only a few years older than Sherlock himself, though he didn’t know whether that counted for anything ( _these creatures may have an alternate aging process and to theorise without fact was always dangerous_ ). He was dressed in the same tunic and trouser combination as Lestrade but was wearing what seemed to be a knitted jumper over the top.

But this was all peripheral. It was his eyes. Eyes that were captivating and mysterious, a deep blue to match his wings.  Although they seemed to assess, it was not in the deconstructing way that Sherlock's often did. More as if he was looking through the outward pretence and into the soul, as if he could see and _knew_ you. Deeply. Intimately. Sherlock had never felt more exposed than he did in that moment, as if he was 7 instead of 17. When they locked eyes, that first cursory gaze, he knew he had never seen anyone so interesting, so beautiful, so enthralling than in that moment.

This was dangerous. His brother’s words; ‘a dangerous disadvantage’.

 

Sherlock had never been afraid of a little danger.

“John! Didn’t expect to find you out here,” Lestrade’s happy shout broke off Sherlock’s inner monologue.

“You were gone for a while; we were beginning to get worried. But I see that your problem is distinctly larger than anticipated.” John’s voice was warm and comforting (like tea Sherlock's brain supplied, illogically) and the grin he sent Sherlock’s way was positively heart stopping. Oh God, he was going _soft_ of all things. If Mycroft ever heard of this _(which he most emphatically wasn’t going to_ ) he would never hear the end of this.

“And that is where you are wrong my friend,” Lestrade pointed to Sherlock, “this idiot's gone and got himself injured. Names Sherlock. Think you could help out?”

Sherlock scowled but Lestrade wasn’t looking. Idiot indeed.

“Well technically it wasn’t my fault. If _someone_ hadn’t been sneaking around, then I wouldn’t have fallen over in the first place.”

“Well if someone hadn’t been climbing where they weren’t allowed-“

“Alright ladies, settle down,” John mediated. “Come on, we’d better get you somewhere with better supplies before I start poking around.”

Sherlock trailed John and Lestrade, who were chatting casually, John about his morning as a ‘healer’ (which Sherlock assumed was like a medical professional, so _technically_ his deduction still held, if you ignore the semantics) and Lestrade about his day before their unexpected meeting.

He garnered some odd looks and whispers from the inhabitants as he walked through what he would term a village; wooden huts with tiny windows and decorated with wildflowers that looked like something directly from those fairytales his father had once attempted to read him before learning that mysteries were more his style. The unexpected memory startled him for a moment. He hadn’t thought of his father in years, not since he’d-.

John and Lestrade disappeared into one of the buildings and Sherlock followed, finding himself in a simple but strangely comfy living room. A few chairs, a bookshelf, a sparse fireplace and an archway leading to a larger kitchen.

“Take a seat,” John indicated to a sofa at the far edge and walked through the arch.

Sherlock went and perched but Lestrade hung back in the doorway. “John, I’ve got to go. Sally will kill me if I don’t drop in. I’ll see you later alright?”

There was a muffled “Okay,” from the kitchen and Lestrade turned to Sherlock.

“It was nice meeting you but a piece of advice? Stick to the paths next time.” With that he walked out the door and Sherlock was left alone. Alone with _John_.

He suddenly found it difficult to breathe, his pulse was quickening, his palms felt unusually sweaty and oh. John was stood in front of him, with a sweet smile. All the oxygen had clearly left the room, left the atmosphere.

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care.

"So let's have a look at you,” he said, holding his hand out, waiting. Sherlock stared at him for a minute, captivated by the face that was suddenly on level with his. John raised an eyebrow, faint amusement on his face. Sherlock jolted and with a quick “Oh, sorry,” put his arm out for the doctor’s inspection. His mind then short circuited again with the reminder that he hadn’t said sorry to anyone in 4 years.

‘You sure you didn’t hit your head? Lestrade said it was just your arm but you kind of zoned out a little there,” John chuckled while he began to look at Sherlock’s arm.

“Er, no. No it was just some rocks I scraped against.”

“Must have been some pretty dangerous rocks, judging by these. What were you doing?”

Sherlock contemplated the question.

On the one hand, he didn’t care what other people thought of him, as everyone was too boring and dull to understand anything he did and his thought process behind doing said things.

On the other, he really, _really_ wanted John to like him.

“Er nothing. Well I was doing things, obviously but most people don’t understand the importance you see and I was just trying to prove to Mycroft because he’s an idiot-” Sherlock was saved from his rambling as John did something so surprising that even Sherlock was rendered speechless. Very, _very_ carefully, John lifted the damaged arm up to his face, so close that Sherlock was certain he was going to kiss it. He stopped a breath away and slowly _blew_ onto his arm, his eyes closing, as in concentration.

His breath was cool and caused Sherlock’s arm to tingle slightly. It also happened to be ice blue. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think, could only stay still and wait. The ice air wrapped around the injured section of his arm, seemed to almost buzz in the quiet of the living room. Then it disappeared, as if it had never existed at all and Sherlock was left with nothing but a tiny mark to indicate where the cut had been.

John's inescapable eyes were suddenly turned on him again, a satisfied smile lighting them. Sherlock merely gaped as he tried to explain, rationally, what had just happened. John laughed at his expression and squeezed his hand gently where it was still placed around Sherlock’s arm.

“See, almost as good as new. Used to be able to make that totally clear but not since-” He trailed off shrugging and the light that glimmered in his eyes faded slightly.

“Well I think it’s very impressive,” Sherlock said quickly, finding his voice again. “You must let me investigate your biology at some point.” He didn’t realise what he had said before it was too late. The instigation of another possible meeting was too much for many human counterparts, never mind a species that may be highly suspicious of any contact whatsoever. All for an _investigation_ as well, as if he hadn’t alienated him enough. 

His mind began plotting the quickest exit. The door would maintain an air of normalcy but the window was looking quite good at this point. As long as he vaulted the window box correctly and the grass was as springy as it appeared then minimal injury could be sustained and he may even make it home before he decided to cringe in embarrassment. In fact-

“I’d be happy to show you. Not enough people appreciate it I think.”

What?

“I mean, not today, I’ve still got to go to the surgery and cover for a mate who’s on holiday leave but another time definitely.”

_What?_

“But only if you wanted to of course. I mean there are books and stuff but I just thought-” John looked uncertain and had removed his hand from its comforting position on Sherlock’s arm. This was, of course unacceptable.

“No, I’m sure I will find your teaching,” _brilliant, fantastic, and illuminating,_ “agreeable.” Sherlock almost grimaced at his own words. Whoever had instilled the irritating formal way of speaking (cough _Mycroft_ cough) was going to pay dearly. Luckily John laughed at his awkward phrasing.

“I look forward to it then and I hope do hope you find it, ‘agreeable’, as you say,” he smiled before stopping, licking his lips and then taking a deep breath to continue. “You’re very intriguing Sherlock.”

Sherlock felt his skin flush and internally cursed his pale complexion. Outwardly, he arched an eyebrow and cautiously said, “What do you mean by that?”

But John, _infuriating_ , intriguing John merely smiled a secret little smirk. “That is for me to know, and for you, if you’re lucky, to find out.” Sherlock felt himself smile in return, both content with a silent conversation of facial gestures. But Sherlock knew he couldn’t stay there forever, much as he’d like to. John seemed to sense his growing reluctance and finally said “You going to run?”

“I’m afraid so. Family,” he left as he really didn’t want to go into _that_ conversation but John seemed to understand anyway.

“Hang on; I’ll go get you something for that arm. Sometimes it can twinge a little,” John said, before standing and disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock moved towards the door, taking the slowest pace he could and, deciding to act on impulse, lounged against the door in a way that made most of the females at his school (when he actually went) swarm around him and his mother say “Sherlock! Posture!”

This appeared to have the desired effect as when John returned, he momentarily stopped and stared. Sherlock smirked and John shook himself, handing over a bottle.  
“That’ll help. You know. If it hurts. At all. Which it shouldn’t. But just in case.”

Sherlock reshuffled his priorities; a stammering John was his new favourite thing.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, making sure his voice was pitched slightly lower than normal. He noticed it often had the same effect as the sophisticated sprawl, often good for getting what he wanted. John visibly gaped for a moment before snapping his mouth shut and straightening up.

Sherlock saw the next few moments in slow motion.

He saw John move forward until he was standing directly in front of him. He saw and felt John's hand curling around the nape of his neck. He saw the slight hesitance in those captivating eyes.

Soft lips brushed against his in a chaste kiss.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t _breathe_. It was beautiful and perfect and felt like it contained the universe and _where the bloody hell was he going_?

John was looking at him with concern, his hands falling until they were only light on his waist. “Sherlock? Oh gods, are you okay?”

What was he talking about? _Why was he even talking?_ Surely he could tell there were better things he could be doing with that mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even ask did I? I feel like an idiot, I-”

John was (thankfully) cut off from his rambling by Sherlock grabbing his face and pulling him closer again. They locked lips, more heated this time, a slight hint of tongues, one set of hands running through dark curls, another clutching onto a jumper. Sherlock began slowly backing John up against the wall when- _Buzz, Buzz. Buzz, Buzz._

John’s head slumped onto Sherlock’s shoulder as they broke off the kiss.

“What, what is that?” Sherlock said, coughing slightly at his gravelly voice.

“A call, for me. There must be some emergency somewhere, I’ll have to go check it out,” John said reluctantly, snuggling into to crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“You’ll have to go then,” Sherlock said, not moving an inch. The noise John made was unintelligible, a mix between an ‘ugh’ and a ‘fffffff’.

“I’ll come back later. You still have to show me that magic of yours you know,” he whispered into John’s ear, nipping it slightly.

Another noise.

“That is true,” John agreed as Sherlock moved away. “Actually, here,” he continued, grabbing a pen, “Call me. You know, when you’re free from your adventuring.” He scrawled a number onto Sherlock’s uninjured arm. They smiled at each other for another few heartbeats, before the incessant buzzing became a problem.

“You sure you can get home okay?” John asked.

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Thank you John. For everything.”

***

Later Sherlock would stretch out onto his bed, still tracing the number (although he’d written it out on a piece of paper he couldn’t bring himself to wash it off) and feeling a tingle on his lips, as if they had been newly kissed. He would call John tomorrow...tomorrow... 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it appears this will be a multi-chaptered fic :) This chapter sees an office argument, an early morning phone call and an interfering big brother...  
> Hope you enjoy and thanks for all the awesome feedback on the first chapter!

Lestrade was in trouble. 

He knew as soon as he got back to the Station that he was in trouble.  He knew this because a very irritated looking Sally was stood in one of the windows, waiting for him. Although he was technically her superior and didn’t have to answer to her, Sally was clever and a good officer and would demand answers whether it was her place to or not. One thing he hated dealing with was an annoyed Sally Donavon.  The figure in the window disappeared as he entered the building and so he started running through the paddock courtyard so that maybe, just maybe if he reached his office before she did, he could-

She was stood directly in the doorway to his office.  It shouldn’t have been possible but Sally didn’t deal within the realms of possible.  He slowed down to a casual walk as she continued to stare at him from her position by the door. 

“Ah, Sally.  You’re back from you rounds then?”  He side stepped her and walked into his office, Sally following suit.

“Don’t you ‘Ah Sally’ me.  Where were you?  We were about to send a team out after you!” Sally waited until the door clicked shut to begin her outburst.

“I don’t have to answer that question you know.  I am in charge.”  He didn’t know whether he was reminding her or himself.  She raised an eyebrow and he crumbled slightly. 

“Look, I was just doing my rounds.”

“Hmmm.  Anything _unusual_ happen?  Anything worth notifying your own team about?  _Any security breaches we may need to be aware of_?” 

It was at this point that Lestrade knew that Sally knew.  He just didn’t know _how_ she knew. 

“Who told you?”  He bet it was the next door neighbour, the well meaning one that was fairly close friends with John before and after he joined the force and when- Well, anyway, no use dwelling on _that_ incident.  What was his name?  Stamford?  Stamford.  He would _definitely_ be having words with him.

 

“Never mind who told me, what the hell were you thinking Greg?” Sally sounded both angry and exasperated.  “Bringing one of _them_ _here_ and taking him to _John_ of all people?”

“Look, he was injured and John was passing by and you know he was once one of the most capable to deal with that kind of injury-” Lestrade said calmly with his palms facing outwards.

“Yeah, once Greg, _once_.  That tells you a lot don’t you think?  Gods I can’t even believe you would even _talk_ to a human.  Wasn’t it you who told me that we should never interact with them?  Wasn’t it you who warned me what they would do if they found out about us?”

“He was on The Stones Sally.  What did you want me to do, just let him trample all over them?” Lestrade began to feel his frustration building.  Luckily his words seemed to subdue her slightly, enough so he could continue to talk.  “I brought him back because I knew we could trust him okay?”

“How do you know?” Sally asked incredulously.

“He’s the kid we’ve been keeping tabs on.  You know the big buildings?  He’s the youngest one, the one that storms through the trees occasionally and scares all the squirrels into frenzy.”

“The one that's barely there?”  Lestrade allowed himself to internally relax as he realised the danger was quickly passing.

“Yes, that one. Look, I’m fairly sure he’ll get patched up, John will send him on his way and we’ll never hear from him again.  Probably think he was hallucinating or something.  So you see nothing to worry about.”  He grinned hopefully at her scrutinising gaze.  Finally she sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Okay but if this ‘nothing’ turns into a ‘thing’ then don’t come running to me,” she warned before handing over a report on her rounds.

“Thanks Sally and don’t worry. I’m sure things will quiet down soon anyway and we’ll be left with no humans for miles around,” he said and gave her a smile as she spun and stalked out the door. 

 

***

Sherlock Holmes was sat glaring at the phone.

He knew logically that John had given him not only his phone number but a direct request to call him which you would think indicated a clear desire for future communication at least.  However, feelings are rarely logical and a creep of doubt seemed to have found a nice little spot in his brain and was currently bombarding his resolve to call with a litany of uncertainty. 

It had started that morning when Sherlock had woken up.  First he was surprised he had slept at all and awake at what Mycroft would call a reasonable time (5:30am).  He was currently training himself to not need sleep ( _such a waste of time_ ) and to sleep right in the middle of aforementioned training was almost a weakness. Then he was overwhelmed as the memories of the previous day came flooding back: the rocks, his fall, the creature called Lestrade, village, meeting John, John looking after him, John kissing him _, John, John, John._  Sherlock indulged himself with those memories, remembering every touch of John underneath him, John’s touch upon him, the smell of him, the taste of him. 

This was where Sherlock ran into a problem.  As far as he was aware he was not under the influence of any substances yesterday but his rational side was screaming that what happened yesterday was impossible.  A group of sentient beings with magical powers living in a forest?  It was something straight out of a fairytale ( _with your very own fairytale prince_ , his mind laughed at him before he shook it away).  There was no evidence for such beings to exist.  It was just not possible.  Sherlock felt his heart sink a little at the thought of imagining the entire thing, his sentimental side feeling hurt at such deceit. 

 

Ah, but he did have evidence didn’t he? Sherlock thought as he realised his right hand was still circled around his left arm.  There it was.  A number, printed in a messy scrawl which definitely wasn’t his own.  Here, on his other arm, a tiny scar, not noticeable unless you were looking for it.  On the bedside table, the number, reprinted in his own hand and a bottle of medication printed first in an intelligible language and then again in English. 

It was real.

Although he knew it was irrational, his heart began to soar.  It was real, all of it.  Including John.  John was real.  A real living breathing thing, possibly awake at the same time, just out there.  John who had smiled at him and healed him and kissed him and asked him to call and Oh god.  _What the hell was he supposed to say_? 

Thus Sherlock sat cross legged on a kitchen chair for an hour, only dressed in his pyjama bottoms and glared at the phone.  Unfortunately it wasn’t very forthcoming on the issue of what to say to your...your John when he asks you to ring. 

“You do realise you have to put the numbers in and then wait for the other person to respond?  Or that the phone actually needs to be ringing for someone to be required to answer it,” drawled a voice from the end of the corridor.

 

“Piss off Mycroft,” Sherlock said without moving.  It was becoming a reflex reaction to his brother’s presence now.  Unfortunately Mycroft decided it was the perfect time for a bit of sibling interaction and so sidled even closer.

“Oh so we do have a number.  It’s not Scotland Yard again is it?”  It was meant as a jab at Sherlock’s old obsession of ringing up the Yard and asking them questions on their deductive methods and how they trained staff and did they realise they missed the vital clue in case X that linked it to case Y? But Mycroft’s voice also held a note of uncertainty, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to disconnect the line just to be safe.  Idiot.  He hadn’t done anything like that for years, not since he realised the Yard weren’t going to listen to a 13 year old boy and he was better off working by himself. 

 

Sherlock huffed an eloquent sigh; one that hopefully conveyed a sense of ‘Go away, I’m thinking and your entire being drains me’.  If Mycroft understood ( _which he did, he always did, the git_ ), then he chose to ignore it in favour of asking more questions.  

“So who is it?”  His voice was nonchalant but from the sliver of expression Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eye, he noticed there was an underlying tension.

“Annoyed you don't know?" He replied with a smug grin twitching at his lips.

“Simply curious as to who has got my dear little brother into such a mess this early in the morning,” Mycroft smiled as he came to stand directly in front of Sherlock. “They must be something quite _special_.”

“I assure you Mycroft they are extraordinary and also no concern of yours.  Now leave and do try not to breathe too loudly when listening in on the line upstairs, you know how it can distract from a decent conversation.”  Mycroft’s expression soured slightly and all he could manage was a sniffed “So childish Sherlock,” before he disappeared into the kitchen. 

“The Cook has hidden all the chocolate breakfast items Mycroft!” 

“Shut up Sherlock!”

Oaf. 

It had however given him an incentive to just _pick up the damn phone and ring him_ because he knew if he didn’t do so quickly he would have Mycroft listening to every word. 

Okay.  He was picking up the phone.  He was punching in the numbers.  He was lifting the phone to his ear.  The phone was ringing.  _Oh this was actually happening, what was he going to say, why hadn’t he planned this out-_

“Hello?  Who is this?” a sleepy voice asked from the other end of the line.

“John?”  Stupid question, who else was it going to be?  He even recognised the voice so it wasn’t like he was confused about who it belonged to.  John was going to think he was an idiot.  ( _Maybe he was an idiot.  No that was nonsense, oh shut up brain and_ concentrate.)

“Sherlock?  Are you alright?  You didn’t get yourself injured again did you?” John asked, clearly panicked.

“No, no I’m fine.  Why would you think I was injured?  I assure you yesterday’s incident was a highly unusual occurrence.”  He left the ‘because I’ve learnt to control my experiments’ unsaid.

“I’m sure it was.  So why the hell are you ringing me at half past 6 in the morning?” 

Ah.  He hadn’t factored in normal sleeping patterns into his ‘going to phone now’ equation. _Stupid_.

“You were asleep weren’t you?” he asked, already knowing the answer.  Maybe he was ill?  That could clearly be the only explanation for this level of insanity.

“Err, yeah I kind of was but it doesn’t matter though.”  Despite his protests, Sherlock could still hear a muffled yawn. 

“Don’t be an idiot John.  Go back to sleep.  Forget this happened.”

“Did you just call me an idiot?” John asked sounding amused and Sherlock could hear rustling like he was snuggling back into his sheets. 

“Well you were being one,” Sherlock replied, adding just a hint of whining to his voice and John laughed.

“Promise me you’ll ring me back at a more reasonable hour.”

“I promise,” he sighed.  He paused and then asked “What constitutes a ‘more reasonable’ hour?”  He didn’t get a reply however as John was already asleep again.  He hung up the phone and placed it back in its holder.  That could have gone better.

 

“So what happened yesterday?” Mycroft said, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a bowl of cereal in his hands.

“Piss off Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled as he stalked back to his room, pointedly slamming the door shut as loud as he could.

Mycroft remained where he was for a moment before walking over to the place his brother had so abruptly vacated.  On the table next to the phone was a slip of paper containing a number and the word ‘ _John_ ’ in his brother’s careful print. 

“What was all that about?” His mother appeared at the end of the corridor, having hurried from the Library.

“Nothing to worry about Mummy.  Just a small misunderstanding between me and Sherlock, as per usual.”  He smiled at her but the worried expression didn’t leave her face.

“Please try not to antagonise him Mycroft.  You know what will happen and I don’t think I could stand another tantrum this holiday.”

“I promise I will do my upmost to ensure his continued safety,” Mycroft said, choosing his words carefully, to which his mother nodded and then disappeared again.  She was currently distracted by a new series of books she had recently found in the attic and so was imploring both her boys to keep quiet for a little while. 

Mycroft looked back to the piece of paper, picked it up and tucked it into his pocket.  Time for a little investigation.

 

***

 

Nothing.

Mycroft could find nothing about the number or the mysterious John who owned it, not even an address.  He sat back at his desk and thought about his options.  It was nearing 8:00am now and so he had very little time before his brother would storm out of his room and destroy any semblance of peace.  To be quite honest, Mycroft was surprised he hadn’t noticed the missing paper yet but perhaps he was still annoyed from their little _spat_ and could get so absorbed in his own mind; though why he was so upset, Mycroft couldn’t fathom ( _they’d had worse arguments in the past with more milder results than a level 1 sulk_ ). 

He had 2 options.  1) Replace the paper and pretend as if he’d never noticed it ( _Sherlock’s deduction powers weren’t up to that high a standard yet_ ) thus appeasing his brother.  However, then he would have to risk listening into the phone line, being yelled at by his brother for snooping and generally causing more fuss than he cared for _or_ 2) Risk ringing up the mystery person and asking them directly who they were and what their intentions were.

 

The phone only rang twice before a voice answered.  “Well this is slightly better than 6:30 I have to admit.  Seriously, do you always wake up that early?”

“I confess I do but it is an unusual first question don’t you think?”

There was a pause from the other side before the voice replied “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.  Who is this?”  He sounded on guard; understandable with the unexpected voice on the other side of the line. 

“Someone of great importance but that is not of your concern at this moment.  Now tell me, what is your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?”

The voice paused again and this time came back vaguely embarrassed “I’m not sure, we met... yesterday.  What’s it to you?”

“And are you planning on furthering this acquaintance?” Mycroft pushed.

“Forgive me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure that's none of your business now is it?”  This was said through clenched teeth.  A temper then.  This John person was sounding more dangerous by the second.

“Surprisingly, it is.”

“I really don’t think so.”

“You are exceedingly loyal, very quickly John.”

“Yes well there you go.  Now how the hell did you get this number?”  

“Is it a stretch of the imagination to imagine Sherlock gave it to me?”  It was a lie that just might work, if this John character was unfamiliar enough with Sherlock and his rather strained relationship with just about everyone. 

“Yes.” 

A lie too far then.

“You probably won’t believe me when I say that I have his best interests at heart.”

“You’re right.  I don’t believe you.”

“It’s funny.  He would probably agree with you.”

“Who would agree with what?  And who are you calling at this time?  I have a very important call to make.”  Sherlock appeared, still in pyjamas but with a blue dressing gown slung over his shoulders. 

“Sherlock?” The voice down the phone said hopefully.  He suddenly sounded much calmer.  Interesting.

Mycroft paused.  He had to defuse this situation very carefully to maximise the amount of distance between him and Sherlock when he found who was on the other end of the phone. 

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s eyes had already alighted on the paper on the table and then flickered to the phone before fixing on Mycroft’s eyes.

“Mycroft. Who are you talking to?” he said softly.

Mycroft carefully extended the hand with the phone in, out towards Sherlock and said with what he hoped was indifference “I do believe it’s for you.”

Sherlock lunged for the phone with a shout of “Mycroft!”as he dropped it and hurried out from the hallway. 

 

“John?” Sherlock was beginning to panic.  He had no idea what Mycroft had been saying.  It couldn’t have been that bad, surely.  But knowing Mycroft it very well could have been that bad or worse. 

“Sherlock?  Are you okay?” John seemed equally on edge.

“Me?  I’m fine.  What about you?  What did he say?”

“I’m good.  A little freaked out.  Who was that?”

“Just a pretentious, self important, pompous git who doesn’t know when to keep out of things that don’t concern him.”

“Sibling huh?  Should have guessed.”  Sherlock laughed.  John didn’t seem angry at him.  It was going to be fine.  He kept that chant going around his mind. 

“I apologise for him.  He’s not been trained in outside interaction yet and is a little brutish.”  John laughed, possibly more from relief than anything else. 

“So,” He said with a sigh.

“So,” Sherlock replied.

“You rang me at 6:30 in the morning.” John stated.  On the plus side he didn’t sound annoyed, more bemused.

“Yes.”

“And then I got intimidated by your brother who didn't actually say he was your brother."

Now Sherlock was confused.  What was John getting at?

“Yes, although that wasn’t technically my fault.  I’m confused where you are going with this.”

John continued regardless.  “And I kissed you yesterday.”

“Yes, yes you did,” Sherlock grinned.

“You’re weird.”

Sherlock felt himself physically recoil from the phone.  It had been a while since someone had taunted him verbally ( _many preferred to just pretend he didn’t exist, which was fine by Sherlock_ ) but the reminder still hurt, especially coming from John.

“I like it.  It’s exciting.” John sounded happy and Sherlock could practically hear his smile.

“Alright, now I’m confused again.”  But instead of explaining John just laughed. 

“Are you coming over?  I’ve got a day off today.”

Sherlock sniffed.  “Possibly.  I have a very busy life, as you can imagine.  And I could choose to be insulted by you right now.”

“You shouldn’t be.  I would take it as a compliment; better than being boring.”  Sherlock repressed the urge to sigh happily.  How had he found someone who understood him so well? 

“Well I do have a very busy life you know.  I can’t just drop everything.”

“You’re going to try and blow something up aren’t you?” John said and Sherlock could hear the grin. 

“How did you know that?” Sherlock asked one part suspicious, one part amused.

“Lucky guess.”

“Your deductive powers are more advanced than you let on John.”

“Deductive powers?  You make it sound like a superpower.”

“Well in the right hands it can be.”

“You mean your hands don’t you?”

“Once again, you show admirable natural instinct.”

“So what can you do?”

“With my natural instinct?” Sherlock teased.

“No with your deductive powers, nitwit.”

“Did you just call me a nitwit?” he asked incredulously. 

“Yes. Now answer the question,” John demanded like a small child who thought they had just done something very clever indeed.

“Okay. A proposition.”

“How very mature of you.  Would you like a briefcase and board meeting to go with that?”

“John I am trying to be serious here.  Please shut up for one moment.”

“Ah there is nothing like true romance.”

“John.”

“Sorry.  Do carry on.”

If Sherlock had stopped to analyse the situation, he would be wondering why he was feeling a fuzzy feeling in his stomach and why the word ‘romance’ wasn’t as repulsive as it had once seemed.

“Thank you.  So, I will show you my powers of deduction if you fulfil your promise of showing me more about your magical properties and basic biology.  Agreed?”

“I do believe we have a deal there.”

“Excellent.  Do you know where the rocks overlooking the villages are?”

“Were they the rocks you fell off last time?” John asked something odd in his voice.

Sherlock sighed.  “I promise I won’t go near them if you are worried about me falling but I assure you I have perfect balance.”

“No that’s not what I-You know what never mind.  I’ll explain later.  Meet me by ‘those rocks’ as you call them by 10.”

Sherlock thought about pressing the point further but decided that he would find out later.  Something fluttered inside him about the possibility of a ‘later’.  He’d never had anyone to have a ‘later’ with before.  It was surprisingly exciting.

“I bet you I’ll be there first.”

John laughed.

“You wish Sherlock.  You wish.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, this chapter was a bit of a struggle but we got there! Next chapter will see more plot development but for now, have some more fluff and some explanations :) Thanks for all your support as well, it is truly awesome!

To avoid inane questions form meddlesome older family members, Sherlock had to climb out of the window and scale down the side of the building; a feat he’d managed easily before but it was summer then and slightly warmer than the advancing cooler temperatures.  This meant he had to throw his coat, scarf and shoes out the window first and then clamber down quickly, dropping into the bushes.  He managed this fairly noiselessly and had a brief flashback to his Aunt’s worried insistence that he was going to turn into a cat burglar and raid all the homes in Southern England.  He shrugged on his coat, turning up the collar, wrapped his scarf around his neck and bent down to pull on his shoes.

“When sneaking out, it is sensible to consider your surroundings I find.” Sherlock sprung up, as his mother leaned out the library window.  He’d forgotten it was directly underneath his bedroom.

“I shall remember that next time,” he sighed, re-planning his route.  If Mummy sent him back to his room he could use the secret passage to get to the kitchens and run round the back, but that would make him very late.  How long was John willing to wait for?  It irked him he couldn’t answer the question.

“Stop fretting.  I am not your brother; I don’t think you need to be locked up like Rapunzel all of the time.”

“Like who?” Sherlock quirked his head in the way that his mother secretly loved.  It brought back memories of when he was still a young boy, always inquisitive and almost constantly looking as he did now.

“It’s a fairytale Sherlock, not something I’d expect you to remember but it was worth a try.  So who you going to see, all dressed up like that?”  She smiled at him and Sherlock thought about being honest but he couldn’t be entirely sure that Mycroft wasn’t listening in.

“A friend,” he said, aiming for casual but with the odd feeling that he may have missed the mark.

“In your newest shirt?  Sherlock, I am your mother and despite your best wishes, do actually know some things about you.”  She laughed delicately at his shocked expression and continued “Now I’m not going to prevent you from going so long as you’re back before 9:00 tonight.  It’s beginning to get dark and I don’t want you running about that late.”

He affectionately rolled his eyes before saying “Of course mother,” not adding that he could easily just sneak out again afterwards ( _though he suspected she already knew_ ).  She disappeared through the window with a wave and Sherlock set off across the garden towards the trees.

 

As he trampled through woods, he thought about his mother; something he hadn’t attempted in a long time.  She was difficult sometimes, excruciatingly so, driven by a determination even Mycroft struggled to match.  It made her distant and cold and at times utterly uninterested in anything that was not the information she sought but Sherlock found he could empathise with her on that.  Her studies were in History though and, although it brought her closer to Mycroft, whose interest in Politics had forced him into a career path very early, it was more difficult for her to engage with her youngest son, whose brain ran on crime scenes and the Sciences.  They did find common ground though, the chase of a supposedly unbeatable puzzle, the buzz of triumph over everyone else and the drive _to be_ somebody.  She was unrivalled in her observational powers, Sherlock knew that as fact.  Both of the brothers had spent most of their childhoods trying to imitate what they believed to be magic ability but was now looking like a genetic trait. 

 

He loved her, really he did.  They just managed to clash one too many times in his early teens and now she was trying to rebuild the pieces into something resembling a relationship.  This generally led to her giving him far more leeway than Mycroft ever did which simultaneously made him better ( _they didn’t argue as much_ ) and worse ( _primarily because he wasn’t ever there to argue with_ ). 

 

Suddenly he felt something jump onto his back.  His reflexes kicked and he threw off his attacker with more difficulty than he was expecting, having to eventually use most of his body strength.  Of the previous fights he had been in many were untrained in combat, whereas his father had demanded his family be prepared for any eventuality, focusing mainly on their ability to defend themselves.  Maybe he was being kidnapped, this time by competent kidnappers ( _the last time had been laughable; he’d gotten free and reached their destination before his assailants did_ ). 

 

It was therefore a shock to spin round to find a surprised but amused looking John, sprawled on the floor.

“You’re pretty strong for someone so scrawny.”

Sherlock had only ever experienced the want for time travel 3 times in his life.  Now was one of those moments.

“Apologies,” he said, holding out a hand to help him up.  “You startled me,” he accused though he couldn’t hide the fact that he was a little impressed.  He must have been truly submerged in his thoughts not to have noticed. 

“Well when one sees a handsome person dawdling through the wood when they should be meeting a _certain someone_ at a certain _place_ at a certain _time_ ,” John said mock seriously as he accepted Sherlock’s help up. 

“I was _not_ dawdling.  I _never_ dawdle.”

“You were too dawdling.”

“I was not dawdling!”

“That word’s starting to lose all meaning.”

“We should stop using it then.  Especially since I didn’t so the arguments nonsense, making the word itself redundant,” Sherlock replied haughtily.

“I’m going to nod and pretend I understood all of that,” John grinned and held out his hand.

“So glad we can agree,” Sherlock said with a smirk, smug not only at his victory, but at the warmth spreading through his fingertips.  He hadn’t realised just how cold it was and John was quickly proving to be better than any gloves as they ambled aimlessly in a peaceful quiet.

 

“You still dawdled,” John said petulantly and Sherlock had to let out a dramatic sigh.  This only made John laugh and Sherlock found it difficult to stay annoyed at him.  Unusual for someone with the ability to hold a grudge for several years at a time.

“I didn’t come here for you to criticise my walking pace.”

“No you came here to see this handsome thing,” John replied with a wink.  Sherlock wished his skin wasn’t as pale as his blush was rather obvious.

“And, you know, learn about me and my fascinating culture because in this relationship, I am clearly the most interesting one.”  Sherlock would usually have a scathing retort lined up to being called anything less than profoundly interesting, even as a joke but his brain had gotten stuck somewhere around John announcing the word ‘relationship’ as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Is that what this is?” he asked.

“What?” John looked confused.

“Is this a...relationship?” He paused before the word.  It seemed important, like it had gravity but he wasn’t sure why.  After all, it was only a word.  Still John’s answer seemed to be imperative in deciding Sherlock’s future mood.

“If you want it to be,” John said carefully, bringing them to a halt.

“I would...It would be...Yes, yes I would like that,” Sherlock replied, annoyed at how he stumbled over his words.  John however beamed and grabbed him into a kiss.  Perhaps he would start being less eloquent; John apparently rather enjoyed it. 

 

***

 

Once again, Sherlock didn’t know where he was going.  John was dragging him somewhere but whenever Sherlock tried to ask him where they were going he either smiled secretly or, if Sherlock really persisted in asking several questions, he would simply kiss him to shut him up.  Sherlock felt this was reason enough to break his rule of never repeating himself. 

 

However when they arrived at where they were going, Sherlock fell silent.

“So what do you think?” John asked, suddenly nervous. 

 

The lake was a crystal blue, much lighter than John’s eyes.  This was clearly the beginning or the end as there was a beach just to the left of where they were stood and the forest swallowed up the end of the meandering water.  Even the sun was shining, despite the months moving towards winter and Sherlock felt suddenly, acutely, safe and warm and strangely at peace; his mind still raced to catalogue details of the scene but it didn’t burn through the information as usual.  He couldn’t work out whether it was the setting or the person stood beside him.

 

“It’s perfect,” Sherlock stated with a smile and John’s face light up. 

“Me and my family used to come here all the time.  It’s not really well known, sort of a Watson family secret,” John explained as they walked down and Sherlock made a mental note of the surname. 

There was a conveniently situated fallen tree trunk on the beach and so John used it as a back rest, while Sherlock sat with his back pressed up against John’s chest.  John had spread his wings out across the branch and Sherlock wondered if they were uncomfortable like that.

 

“So magic,” Sherlock prompted.

“Real subtle there Sherlock,” John laughed.  “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he replied quickly.

“I suppose I did ask.  You don’t ever do anything by halves do you?  I meant was there anywhere specific you wanted to start,” John grumbled teasingly. 

Sherlock paused to consider.  “Why do you have these abilities?  Where do they come from?  Do you have total control over them or are they more random?”

“The first one’s relatively simple,” John said, moving one hand from where it had wrapped itself around Sherlock’s middle and picking a penknife out from his pocket.  “Now watch,” he instructed and carefully pricked one finger, as if doing a blood test.  The blood welled up, as it would on a human apart from one noticeable difference.

“It’s green.”

“Yep,” John said, far too happily, “The magic is literally in our blood.”  John flexed his fingers and the blood flow stopped.  Sherlock felt a twinge of jealousy as he remembers the amount of plasters he’s been forced to use over the years.

“As for where it comes from, no one’s really sure,” John continued, “Most believe it came from the Gods.  Those ‘rocks’ that you were messing about on are actually a big part of our culture you know.  It was said that one day a man was walking with no purpose in life.  He sat on the rocks and sent out a cry for anyone to help him find a true meaning.  The Gods saw him and took pity on him and so promised him new abilities if he set up the community and spread the word of their kindness to all future generations.  Thousands of years later and here we are.”

“That holds no scientific evidence you know,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Neither does magic, genius.  Anyway, it’s a nice story to tell kids before they go to bed.  Some of believe that we’re just an anomaly of nature or another branch of humanity,” John balanced. 

Sherlock thought about this new information, settling it into his Mind Palace ( _Mummy had said it would come in useful one day_ ).

“As for controlling things, we have total control most of the time.  It’s only in highly emotional situations that we can...spark,” John decided.  At some point he had started stroking Sherlock’s hair, threading the curls absently through his fingers and Sherlock felt his eyes closing. 

“So what can you _do_ exactly?” Sherlock said, slightly more sleepily than intended.

“Well there’s healing that you’ve seen already.  I used to be able to do full healing for everyone and everything but not anymore.  There are other things too: force projection, sort of like a force field of power, some have telekinesis.  Some have abilities that others don’t like speciality healing and things like that.  My friend Molly has an ability to tell you how people have died and Mike can sense when people have a connection.  You can use the magic from anywhere on your body too but most people just stick to their finger tips.  Oh, and there’s different levels too; some of us are stronger than others.”

“Can you fly?” Sherlock asked, feeling slightly childish at the question but the wings must serve some sort of purpose. 

John’s fingers paused and his body tensed up at the question but he answered nevertheless.  “Not anymore.  Left wing got damaged and it’s beyond everyone’s ability to fix it.  That’s why I stopped being a Defender and concentrated on healing instead.”  Judging from John’s tone that was all he was going to say on the subject.  Sherlock considered perusing it briefly but let it go.  Another time, maybe. 

“Do you have a proper name for your kind?  I’ve been wondering about what to call you.”  Sherlock huffed as if it was John’s fault for not telling him sooner.

“Well our Latin name is _incolae nemori._ It means ‘inhabitants of a forest’ which I think suits us just fine but most people shorten it to Inc’s for practicality.”

Sherlock nodded, leaving the new information to process before asking anything else and they settled into a comfortable silence, just the two of them by the lake.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did that explain everything? Is there anything else you want to know?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly sorry this wasn't up earlier but this week has just been horrendous. Secondly thank you for all the awesome feedback, as always. Thirdly, some actual plot!

They could have stayed there all day, just chatting and enjoying each other’s presence but John’s stomach had other ideas. 

“It appears you are not as different from humans as you make out,” Sherlock whined as they trekked back to John’s house.

“Look it’s not unusual to be hungry Sherlock.  Everyone’s still got to eat.”  Sherlock was impressed that John was still answering reasonably after 20 minutes of dragging what appeared to be a 17-going-on-7 year old through the trees.

“I don’t have to,” Sherlock pointed out

“No you do.  You just tell yourself that because apparently _someone_ thinks that their body’s just transport, whatever that means.”

“It is a valid point!”

“No it isn’t!”

They carried on bickering for 10 minutes until a voice shouted out “John is that you?”

Sherlock froze but John merely sighed and shouted back “Yes, hello Sally.”

A tall figure with dark skin, lilac wings, mad curls and a scowl came into view.  When she saw Sherlock, she stopped.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?” she demanded.  She looked at Sherlock as if he was a moment away from attacking her.  Sherlock decided he didn’t like her.

“Look Sally-”

“No.  He’s human.  _Human_ John,” Sally looked at John as if he was insane.

“Surprisingly I know that,” John replied sarcastically before he added “What are you even doing here anyway?  I thought your route was on the other side.”

Sally looked conflicted but reluctantly said “Although it’s none of your business, I guess you’ll find out soon enough.  Anderson found... something.” 

“What is it?” John asked frowning.

Sally sighed.  “Just because Lestrade trusts you with case detail doesn’t mean-”

“You can’t solve it can you?” Sherlock jumped in.

“What?” Sally glared at Sherlock.

“Whatever it is, your case, you can’t solve it can you?”

“I bet Sherlock can solve it,” John said confidently.

“Most likely,” Sherlock had no trouble agreeing.

“Woah woah woah, you want me to take _him_ ,” Sally pointed at Sherlock, “Into a _crime scene_?”

“You don’t believe I can solve it quicker than you?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Too right I don’t.”

“Bet I could.”

“Prove it.”

“Fine,” Sherlock said, sweeping off in the direction that Sally had come from.  John followed behind, feeling just a little bit smug and Sally trailed after them wondering when her life had devolved into this madness. 

Sherlock followed the muted noise until they alighted upon the scene.  The patch of woods was indistinguishable from any other patch of woods apart from one key factor.  An Inc with vivid pink wings to match her pink outfit was laying face first, clearly dead.  

Sherlock surveyed the area, looking for any data that may be of use like the fact this place was rarely walked through; the sets of footprints were all relatively new.  

Lestrade walked over, scowling.  Dull. Sherlock turned to look over the Inc.

"What's this then?" Lestrade said.

"A crime scene, next," Sherlock said automatically.

John snorted, Sally looked shocked and Lestrade sighed as if he wasn’t surprised.  Sherlock turned to the trio that were staring at him.  "What?" he said puzzled.

Lestrade shook his head and turned to John.  "What the hell is he doing here?"

"I'm here to solve your murder case.  Next time direct your questions towards me or, even better, not at all," Sherlock interrupted John, irritated.  

"And who says I’m going to let you on the scene, never mind look into the case?"

"Because I already know that this woman's a reporter, new into the community and a serial adulterer. Would you like me to go?" Sherlock spat out.

This grabbed most of the others' attention who now stood watching the abrasive newcomer with interest.

"Brilliant." John said excitedly.  He was looking with an awe that made Sherlock's chest constrict and a sudden urge to carry on impressing John came over him. He turned to Lestrade who sighed and waved him on.

"Is no one going to ask him how he knows all that?" Sally said suspiciously.

"The vivid pink suggests media personality, reporter due to the alarming shade.  New into the community because of her coat.  It's wet but we haven't had rain in 2 days, due tomorrow, you may want to bring your flowers in," he added as an aside to a petite officer, "so recently arrived from somewhere with rain. Have to thank John partially for serial adultery. Humans have rings but he told me about the wing notches you have for each year of marriage.  10 notches but they’ve been concealed with a film over the outer edges of her wings, suggesting she's been seeing men who are decidedly not her husband.  The reporter career shows a needs for attention and spotlight, as does the frankly alarming shade of pink, and adding in the time period, multiple lovers is likely and she was here to see another if I'm correct, which I am. Can I solve her murder now or do you want me to keep talking like a performing monkey?" Sherlock finished his speech with a tight lipped smile at Sally's stunned look before he strode closer to the body.

"Extraordinary.  Absolutely extraordinary," John praised.

"You do realise you do that out loud?" Sherlock said amused.

"Oh right yeah.  Sorry, I'll stop," John looked embarrassed.

"No.  No it's... fine." Sherlock smiled shyly which John returned before Lestrade interrupted them with a cough.

"So her murder?" He asked and Sherlock smirked at him.

"Ready to believe me?"

"Ready to listen," he answered diplomatically.

"John," Sherlock said crouching down.

"What am I doing?" John whispered as they both leant over the body.

"Helping me show off," Sherlock whispered back.  “Now how did she die?”

John did a quick check before nodding to himself. 

"Asphyxiation.  Excessive drinking maybe?" John was trying his best to appear innocent.

"You know what it is John," Lestrade said, suddenly looking wary.

"What?  What is it?" Sherlock ordered.  What was he missing?

"This isn't the first we've seen.". 

“Do you still have the others?”

“One.  He’s in the morgue,” Lestrade said.  Unusually his face light up slightly when he spoke.  Interesting but not relevant to the investigation so Sherlock filed it away for later.

“Show me,” he demanded.

Lestrade lead the way out, with Sherlock sweeping behind with John.  Sally tried to protest but Lestrade designated her in charge of the clear up which seemed to pacify her slightly. 

To get to the morgue, they had to pass through the village.  It was quieter but once again, there was an assortment of odd looks, from annoyance to curiosity to pure outrage.  Surprisingly, most of the looks dissipated into a knowing disappointment as soon as they saw John.  Irrationally, Sherlock felt a pang of anger and an urge to ask them what they were all staring at.  How dare they judge John who was probably better than all of them combined.  Idiots. 

The hospital building was not dissimilar to a human one with the only noticeable differences that it was mainly made out of wood and that it was sparser. 

“This is where we train most of our new Healers,” John said in hushed tones, as a group of Inc’s not much older than Sherlock were shown how to seal a simple cut in one of the rooms to the left.  “The morgue is at the back.”

In the room, a mousy haired Inc was sat by an open drawer, scribbling on a notepad, pausing occasionally to inspect the body closer.  From the way that she jumped as they walked through the door she was either very tied up in her work or merely unobservant.  Her face was pretty but not extremely definitive and she was wearing comfortable clothes under her white lab coat.  Not particularly interesting, apart from her wings.  Compared to her apparently quiet personality, her wings were a vibrant, almost glowing orange, loud and bold. 

“Hi Molly,” Lestrade said, grinning.  Ah, that explained his cheerful reaction to visiting such an undesirable place.

“Hi Greg,” she squeaked.  She rushed to stand up but upon realising there wasn’t much for her to do, she began fiddling with her hair and smiling at Lestrade.  “How can I help you?”

“You know that suicide from last week?  We were wondering if we could take a look.” 

“Oh of course.  Has something else happened?” Molly asked with a frown.

“Unfortunately, but it’s nothing for you to worry about,” Lestrade hurried to reassure her as she walked to the other side of the room.

“No.  I mean, I wasn’t worried.  After all, it’s your job to protect us all,” she stuttered and Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore.

“And I’m sure he does a marvellous job, considering people are still disappearing.  Now if we could just see the body then maybe I will be able to solve this even quicker than the 2mph pace we appear to be going at,” he snapped.  Molly jumped again, as if just noticing Sherlock and John were in the room.

“Oh, yes,” she said and pulled open another drawer, revealing a middle aged male Inc.

As Sherlock became quickly engrossed, Molly slipped over to talk to John and Lestrade. 

“Hi John, long time no see.”

“Yeah, I’ve been...busy.  You know, new job and all that,” John excused but Molly still smiled.

“I expect so.  So, who’s your friend?” she asked.  It hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice that she’d barely stopped staring at Sherlock since he’d interrupted.

“He’s called Sherlock and thinks he knows everything.  That’s about everything you need to know,” Lestrade huffed.

“Correction.  I know everything about what is relevant.  The drivel you fill your heads with is only detrimental to the thought process,” Sherlock muttered while studying the man’s left toes.

“And yes he does always talk like that,” John added.

“He’s um, well, he’s a,” Molly took a deep breath and started again, in a whisper, “He’s _human.”_  

“Yes,” John said calmly but with underlying tension.

“I don’t mean to be rude or anything.  It’s just how can he help?  I mean he doesn’t have any powers or anything,” Molly asked.

John held up a hand and then said “Sherlock?  Care to demonstrate?”

“This man is a newspaper editor, recently returned from a business trip from America.  Left handed, with a preference for electronics rather than pen and paper, an adulterer like our previous woman in pink but not serial this time, though the links a start I suppose.  Had an underlying foot infection that was never sorted out.  All in all, boring and dull, just like everyone else apart from his murder,” he turned to Lestrade.  “I’ll need your files to take home with me.  I should have it sorted out by tomorrow at the latest.”

Molly looked amazed, Lestrade looked annoyed, John returned to looking smug and Sherlock felt the unusual sensation that everything was suddenly _right_.

“Your convinced it's murder then?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, aren't you?  The multiple victims, the same method, it all points to a serial killer," Sherlock said exasperated.  

"Even with that being the case, I can’t just let you walk around with confidential information Sherlock, not on your own,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Don’t be ridiculous.  John will be there.”

“What?” John asked but everyone seemed to ignore him. 

“I can’t allow that either.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not a Defender.”

“But he was and you’ve trusted him so far so that’s not the problem.  Also you know where I live and it’s not like I can do anything with them that would be too damaging.  So it’s not us you are worried about but someone else, a someone who would be very annoyed if she found out that you were letting us, specifically me have information pertaining to the case.  However, I must remind you that you are the one in charge and that you should really give me the case notes immediately.”

Lestrade, for the 3rd time that day, wondered _why_ he was letting this arrogant, yet brilliant teenager into the vicinity of the village at all. 

“Alright then.  But _he_ ” he pointed at Sherlock, “is to go nowhere without _you,_ ” he pointed at John “following him.  Understood?”

“Perfectly,” John said.  Sherlock looked at him curiously while they trailed Lestrade out the room, after having waited while he said an irritatingly long goodbye to Molly. 

“What?” John whispered.

“Why did you say perfectly?  He’ll expect us to follow his instructions now,” Sherlock hissed back.

“I said it was understood, not that we’d be sticking to it.”  John smirked and set both the boys into barely restrained giggles. 

Sherlock had the sudden sinking feeling that all of this could end very, very badly but pushed it down in favour of enjoying the rush of a case, a case with John.  Later could wait, for now, the chase was on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock works on the case, John goes adventuring and the plot thickens...

Sherlock’s grand plan of simply taking John home with him seemed like an excellent idea while stood with a frustrated Lestrade and an easily convinced John.  However, upon actually approaching the house, it dawned on Sherlock that he may not have fully thought this plan through.  

The clothes Sherlock could pass off as eccentric ( _which would explain why he was friends with Sherlock of all people_ ) and John’s polite, calming demeanour would allow him to charm his way around Mummy who could keep Mycroft out of the way.  But there was one thing that even Sherlock couldn’t explain in a way that sounded even remotely normal.

“You can’t do anything about the wings can you?” he asked and paused to watch comprehension dawn on John as well.

“No, sorry.  That’s going to be a problem isn’t it?” John said, looking worried. 

“Don’t worry.  There’s a way in but it’ll mean you’ll have to stay quiet and I _mean_ quiet,” Sherlock said.  His brain was running through several not-good scenarios that included intruding brothers bursting through the door and accidentally confirming the idea of a nation of magical people which would not end well for anyone and was to be avoided at all costs.  So Sherlock did the only thing that could be done.

***

“So you want me to climb _that_ wall and get through _that_ window?” John said, pointing, from their cover of trees opposite the side of the house containing Sherlock’s large bedroom window.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, scouting the garden and windows visible on this side of the house.

“Easy,” John grinned and Sherlock looked at him in surprise, expecting at least some protest about safety precautions.  John however seemed genuinely excited and Sherlock returned his smile. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.”  Pause. One final check.

“Now,” Sherlock said and sprinted over the patch of grass and jumped, using the top ledge of the window directly below his as leverage and hauling himself up onto the ledge above. 

He hated opening the window from this side.  Picking the lock was easy but it was the prying it open with his fingertips which was difficult.  It was only when he had dropped inside that he turned round to see... nothing.  Where had John gone?

He scanned the trees, thinking John may have stayed back, making his jump easier.  It was during this scanning that John swung himself up from where he had been clinging onto the piece of ledge to the left and nearly head butted Sherlock, causing him (Sherlock) to fall backwards in shock and John to fall forwards into the room.  However Sherlock considered this a minor success as a) it didn’t look like they had been caught from the lack of shouting and/or footsteps and b) he know had one John Watson lying on top of him.

“Not my most graceful landing,” John grumbled, somewhere around the base of Sherlock’s neck.

“We can work on it.  I’m sure you’ll do much better next time,” Sherlock said, taking the opportunity to run his fingers through John’s blonde hair. 

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Oh and you were so enthusiastic beforehand,” Sherlock teased and John huffed a laugh.  They remained where they were for a time, until Sherlock spoke again.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve lost feeling in my right arm.  As a Doctor I think you would agree this isn’t a good thing.”

John swore before scrabbling to stand up.  “Sorry Sherlock.  If it makes you feel any better you make an excellent mattress.”

“I shall turn in my dreams of becoming a detective then.  It is obvious where my future lies, as a piece of furniture,” Sherlock dismissed but it just made John laugh again. 

Sherlock huffed and swung round to his desk, grabbing the papers from the inside of his coat.  John was far too easily amused.  On the other hand this could work to his advantage.

***

While Sherlock was occupied, John had a look around.  Sherlock’s coat was slung across the back of the chair he was perched on but, oddly, all of his clothes seemed to be neatly put in the wardrobe rather than the floor as he had expected.  In front of him was a desk where, of course, there was the biggest mess John had ever seen in his life.  He didn’t even want to question what was on and in the Petri dishes or microscope and the sheer amount of papers was staggering.  The rest of the room wasn’t much better and so John took a seat on the only thing that wasn’t covered in experiments; the bed which in contrast to the rest of the room looked hardly touched. 

“How do you even know where anything is?” he asked, looking for some kind of ordering system. 

“I remember,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand that was clearly supposed to mean ‘I am trying to concentrate, don’t disturb’. 

“But how?” John persisted.  Sherlock heaved a melodramatic sigh and did that thing where he looks 2 milliseconds away from rolling his eyes before his self control kicks in.  John knows this as he has seen that look many times in the brief amount they have known each other. 

“By using my memory John.  It’s not my fault everyone else has chosen to fill their minds with drivel and so find the concept of remembering where certain objects are difficult.  Now be careful, some of these experiments are very delicate,” he chided as John’s foot came dangerously close to being in what appeared to be a red liquid.  John wondered what it was until he came to the conclusion that he was probably best off not knowing.

“You are free to move you know, as long as you don’t disrupt anything important,” Sherlock said without taking his eyes from the papers.  John resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him.  Also how was he supposed to know what was important or not?  John took the precaution of assuming everything was dangerous and nothing could be trusted.  He did however comply with Sherlock’s suggestion and, while edging round the room, found several things that interested him. 

“Sherlock?  What’s this?” John said waving the contraption under his nose in order to catch his attention.  The few questions he’d asked such as “What is this green stuff?” and “Are you allowed to have animal bones in your room?” had gone unanswered so far but this one was deemed highly significant to understanding humans and John wanted to know as much as possible.  All the tales of humans from his childhood had been about warning them away but now that he knew they weren’t all evil and bloodthirsty, it made sense to try and show some interest.

“It’s a lamp John,” Sherlock huffed, trying to look around it to the photo set underneath.

“Oh,” John said, nodding.  He then ruined the illusion by saying “And what does a lamp do exactly?”

To this, Sherlock sighed and held out his hand.  John deposited the red thing and Sherlock took a black object, attached to the ‘lamp’ by what seemed like a weird form of string, uncovered some precise holes near the skirting board and stuck the object in.  John wondered if Sherlock’s mother knew he was destroying the wall.  Sherlock then clicked something and the lamp emitted light. 

“Happy?” Sherlock slumped back into his chair, looking at John as if he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused.  John couldn’t think what was amusing. 

“I forget you humans can’t do this,” John said, producing a ball of light in his hand and raising it to hover above Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock followed it, looking like the kittens Molly had.  Now that he thought about it Sherlock was very cat-like.  John could just imagine him with cute little ears and a tail.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmured as he reached out to touch.  The light dissipated immediately.

“Tell me how,” he demanded but John shook his head.

“You’ve got a case to solve,” he pointed at the files on the desk, “I’ll explain after.”

“But _John,_ you’re the one that distracted me in the first place,” Sherlock whined.

“I won’t in the future then,” John said, leaving the lamp on the desk and wandering off again.  He could hear loud clattering behind him and a thump that suggested the lamp had returned to its rightful place on the floor.

John weaved his way around the room in a circle.  It was probably double the size of his room at home but the amount of stuff crammed in made it look smaller.  He sifted through a few papers, although Sherlock’s writing was partially undecipherable as most of it was written in symbols, diagrams and what could have been another language ( _John thought that is was a thing called French but he wasn’t entirely sure if French was a language, a type of person or something else entirely. His cousins hadn’t quite explained it properly and left John feeling confused and a little scared_ ). 

The experiments were scattered around, some with notes attached, others looking slightly abandoned.  

He stood and puzzled over the skull that was perched on Sherlock’s bedside table.  There were a lot of questions behind that one but now was not the time and Sherlock had a case to work on and they really hadn’t known each other for a decent amount of time to be asking questions about random pieces of a human's skeleton in people’s rooms. 

However, it was the violin that grabbed his attention most.  It was a beautiful instrument and John’s urge to ask Sherlock to play was almost overwhelming.  But he’d promised he wouldn’t ask any more questions that didn’t need to be asked and so he didn’t.  John was certain Sherlock would look stunning playing and would likely be able to play beautifully too.  He didn’t dare go any closer than a few footsteps away though; John could see that Sherlock was already tense with him being this close as, although he hadn’t turned, he was remaining still, a piece of paper clenched in his hands.  When John moved away, Sherlock’s shoulders fell and any previous tension went.

John went to go perch on the bed again, his mini-tour finished.  On Sherlock’s bedside table next to the skull was an object that looked particularly abandoned, with dust piling up on it.  Not important, John decided and picked it up.  Well, if Sherlock had his own mystery, why shouldn’t he solve this?

***

John had been quiet for a while now.  It had been welcome at first as keeping track of both his mind’s spiralling thoughts and John’s waltzing round his room (with its variety of potentially dangerous experiments) was exhausting but now it was beginning to be worrying to the point of being a distraction again.  He tried focusing on the pictures once again.  There was something, something about this one, something specific that linked it to this other one, if only he could break through and really _see_.  Just look, look, just-

“John what are you doing?” he asked and whirled round, his patience breaking.  He didn’t quite know what he was expecting but it wasn’t what he found.

“I’ve got these colours lined up on this side but it’s just this one right here,” John muttered back, his face scrunched up in concentration, crossed legged on Sherlock’s bed.  Sherlock thought that he hadn’t seen anything quite as endearing, until he realised he didn’t think those thoughts and quickly locked them away so no one would _ever_ know.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly, “What are you doing with that Rubik’s cube?”

“Oh is that what it’s called?  I’m trying to solve it,” John replied, unconcerned.

“Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock said impatiently, “However the reason why you are attempting to solve it still eludes me.”

John sighed, as if _Sherlock_ was the one being deliberately obtuse.  “Well, while you’re solving _your_ mystery, I thought I give this one a go.  I think I’m doing quite well.”

“John you got confused over the function of a lamp.  Excuse me for not having full confidence.”  A glare was shot his way.

“Only because _you_ can’t solve it.  Also Magic is a gift I fully intend to use.  We don’t have the need for any of your silly little light contraptions.”

“Yes I can solve it, I just don’t want to waste my time on stupid smaller things when I could be experimenting.  And you have a phone John.  That’s definitely human,” Sherlock argued.

“Liar and yeah, we’re not telepathic.  We need _some_ way of communicating and you had quite a good solution there.”  John was still focused on the puzzle.  Sherlock was beginning to get irrationally angry at the stupid cube. 

“Your village is so small I could shout from one end and it would be heard at the other.  You don’t need a phone,,” Sherlock snapped. 

Interestingly, John began to look uncomfortable and shifted slightly on the bed.  “Sometimes I might want to make calls to outside the village.  Anyway the village isn’t _that_ small.  You’ve only seen a few bits of it.”

“And the bits I've seen are about ¾ of the place.  Now who else are you ringing?” Sherlock was curious ( _as always_ ) but a part of him was buzzing, asking if he really wanted to know the answer.  Sherlock was 87% certain that John was not just talking about him.

“You’re assuming it isn’t you?” John said, missing the casual, teasing tone he was aiming for.  As if he thought that Sherlock couldn’t tell.  The percentage went up to 98%. 

“You wouldn’t be this uncomfortable if it was just me.  There must be someone else, someone you are trying to hide.”

“Stop doing that deducting thing.  I’m not trying to hide them,” John protested.

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s personal Sherlock!” John shouted, trying to slam the puzzle down on the soft bed.  It didn’t have the impact he was hoping for but he didn’t seem to care.  They sat glaring at each other, neither willing to relent.  But Sherlock knew John would first because that was just how John was.  Equally, John also knew he would relent first but still fought anyway.  One day he would win, if he kept on working on it but for now, the power of the Holmes glare was too much.  He sighed.

“Look, just drop it, okay?”  He turned back to the cube with less enthusiasm than before, chucking it between his palms for a bit.

“It’s family related isn’t it?  That’s why you can’t tell me?” Sherlock spoke as carefully and tactfully as he could.

“Yes.  My sister actually.  But that’s another story, for another time.  You’ve got a serial killer to catch,” John said sounding tired. 

“You are clearly much more interesting John,” Sherlock stated.  It was a simple fact in his mind now.  John however, looked at him strangely, as if he’d announced he was leader of a cult or something.  Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say, maybe- But no, John smiled. 

“That’s really nice Sherlock.  Thank you.  Doesn’t excuse you from being rude though.”

“If I say I am sorry for intruding your privacy?”

“Yeah, that should do it,” John nodded and Sherlock relaxed.  He didn’t normally mind angering people, even enjoyed it sometimes but there was something about John that seemed _wrong_ when he was angry.

They both returned to their pastimes, though Sherlock couldn’t concentrate.  None of the details made sense, there was just no _link_.  Although he had all the facts the Yard could give him, it was nowhere near the amount he would have liked and how was he supposed to theorise without all the data?  All he needed was a spark, something to set him on the right path.  The rest would be easy, like fixing a child’s jigsaw puzzle.  But _where was it_? 

“Is all your family interested in puzzles or is it just you? My mum always liked the ones with words in but I could never get the hang of them.  My dad said it was like she was creating letters and words out of thin air,” John announced, reminiscing, oblivious to Sherlock’s inner turmoil.  Why was he wittering on about letters?  He lined up the photos chronologically, one on top of the other.  The word letters tugged on something in his brain but what was so significant about letters?  There was no mention of letters anywhere in the case notes or on the photos-

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock spread out the photos again, turned one, just slightly to the left and then this one, slightly to the right and it suddenly became clear.  He ran over and nearly knocked John over with the force that he kissed him with. 

“John you are brilliant, fantastic, amazing,” he gushed, thinking of all the adjective John had used to describe him because clearly John deserved them too.  John sat in shock for a moment before his brain caught up. 

“What?”

“The cases John.  They are linked, always are but this one was different, this one was a _challenge_ ,” Sherlock’s voice caressed the last word.  “Come here, come look.”  He launched himself back across the room, John following. 

“You see,” Sherlock pointed out, though he thought it was clear what he had spotted.  “4 victims, all strategically placed.  Different clearings but similar shape and sizes.  This was pre-planned.  The bodies were placed in a specific way but why didn’t make sense until now, when you said the thing about letters.  If you line them up in chronological order, it’s obvious.  The bodies spell out a letter.  Can’t you see?”  John frowned with his concerned look on.  Beneath that was a flicker of something but it was so hidden that Sherlock couldn’t quite see what it was, though he knew it wasn’t good.

“What letter is it?” John said tightly.

“M,” Sherlock said, his voice faltering from its previous bounce.  He could see, as soon as he spoke what was behind John’s worried look. 

It was fear.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I'm a sucker for cliffhangers...
> 
> Also a huge thanks to everyone who's commented or kudos this or even just read it, it really means a lot to me :D Sorry it seems like a while between chapters, school's gone crazy and I've just started a part-time job but hopefully next chapter up soon :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, sorry for the wait between updates! This is a bit later than I wanted but on the other hand, out of this busy week, I got to meet Daniel Sloss the comedian (who I recommend checking out, he was so funny) so ups and downs :) Secondly, sorry for such a short chapter; I was going to add something in but then decided to put into the next chapter instead :P Thirdly I hope you enjoy this and thanks for the continuing support guys, it means a lot :D

“John?” Sherlock asked cautiously.  He had expected some excitement at having uncovered a major clue in finding the culprit, perhaps some praise of Sherlock's cleverness.  But this, whatever _this_ was, made him feel...unsettled. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I really am but I have to go back to find Greg and the others and warn them and I just.  I just really need to go okay?”  John was backing away from the photos as if physically sick at being near them, moving towards the window.  Sherlock’s first reaction was that he was running away, because of course, they all do at some point or another.  People were too stupid to understand him and so left when they couldn’t stand him any longer.  He didn’t need them anyway.  _Please don’t go_. 

Then his logical brain kicked back in and he shook the thoughts from his head.  John wasn’t leaving because of him, idiot, he was leaving because of the photos.  Find out what’s wrong with the photo.  Find out who M is.

“I’ll go with you.”  John shouldn’t be going anywhere alone in his state anyway; his skin was much too pale and he was almost shaking.  Better to have someone with him, to make sure he didn’t collapse. 

“No,” John almost shouted with panic.  He took a breath before continuing, “No, you, you should stay here.  It’s not safe out there, not for you,” he added, softer.

“And it’s safe for you?” Sherlock countered.

“Well, no but,” John looked guilty, “But I can’t protect both of us.  With you here, I’ll know your okay.”  John’s hands ran across Sherlock's cheekbones and tangled in his hair.  “Please,” he pleaded when he saw Sherlock’s hesitance, “Please, for me?” 

Sherlock sighed, lowered his tense shoulders and pressed his forehead to John’s for a few moments.  “Fine, on one condition.  You let me know _exactly_ what is going on and I don’t mean tell me the bits you think I can handle and leave out others.  I can’t help if I don’t know.”

“Sherlock, this really isn’t your problem,” John began but Sherlock cut him off.

“Only because you refuse to let me in,” Sherlock said exasperated.

“With good reason!  You don’t understand, can’t understand this but it’s for your own good.  Trust me.”  Sherlock looked at John, truly looked, saw the panic and worry rolling off of him and the hint of desperation he was covering up. 

“Promise me you’ll tell me everything going on after you leave.  Then you can go,” Sherlock demanded stubbornly.  There was a fight in John’s eyes but he reluctantly agreed.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I promise to tell you everything that is going on but only if I can at that point in time.  Still not telepathic you know.”  His grin was weak but it was the attempt that mattered.  _He’s trying to comfort you, say something!_   However Sherlock couldn’t find the right words and so showed John instead, kissing him briefly but deeply.  He let his irritation at being left behind, his irrational concern for John’s safety, his twinge of excitement at the thought of the mystery, each and every one found its way into that kiss.  John merely clung on, as if his life was in Sherlock’s hands. 

They broke apart and Sherlock muttered “Be safe,” into John’s ear because it seemed right too at the moment and then John was saying goodbye in a way that made Sherlock’s stomach clench and twist.  Then he was out of the window and out to the forest and gone, disappeared into the night.  Leaving behind Sherlock.  Alone. 

It was strange, Sherlock thought detachedly, how much he had changed over the past 2 days.  How normal could change so quickly until his old loneliness seemed alien to him. 

Oh God, he’d gotten _sentimental_.  He dismissed the revolting thoughts, grabbed his current book and took up a post by the phone. 

***

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I’m waiting.  I know patience is a difficult concept for you but some people do in fact have the restraint for it.”

“If anyone is going to preach patience as a virtue I don’t think anyone will listen to _you_.  Didn’t you once blow up the Library out of boredom?  Also, clearly I meant what are you waiting _for_?” 

“Mycroft one, it was an experiment.  Two, if I wished to tell you then wouldn’t I have done so already?”

His brother sighed and straightened his jacket, a tell that he was frustrated.  Well let him.  Sherlock didn’t care; he had much bigger concerns. 

“Sherlock it would be remiss of anyone to assume they can force you to do anything you do not wish to.  However if I could help in anyway-”

“No.”

“This isn’t about the phone call the other day is it?” Mycroft said; in no uncertain mind that it definitely _was_ about that phone call.

“Mycroft, isn’t there some lower level assistant you need to go fire or promote or something?  I forget which; they change so often these days.” Sherlock said, in no doubt that Mycroft knew _exactly_ why he was angry and was just being, what John would call a ‘right tosser’. 

“There is no reason to get tetchy with me brother,” Mycroft said, pretending to be offended.

“There is every reason to be annoyed with you.  This encounter doesn’t even enter my top 20.”

“Neither is it in mine but back to the point and _don’t try_ and deny you are changing the subject.  Now what is the matter with you?”

Was-Was Mycroft trying to be _sympathetic_?  In his own brusque, unfeeling way of course but still this was new.  Sherlock finally turned to look at him, instead of keeping him in the periphery while pretending to read his book.  There didn’t appear to be any ulterior motives but then again this was _Mycroft_ , his brother, who wanted to know everything about everyone so he could meld the world to his exact standards. 

“What do you want?” he asked suspiciously.

“Is it so unusual to want to help my baby brother?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered immediately.  Perhaps too quickly as Mycroft gave him a look that suggested that, if he weren’t family, he would have been whisked away to some experimental lab as a test subject. 

"Fine, let's do this your way. Call it an experiment, as you are so fond of them;  I will attempt to be _caring,”_ his nose crinkled at the word but he continued nevertheless _,_ “and you will attempt to be grateful.”

“That isn’t very scientific,” Sherlock couldn’t help but argue.

“Call it a social case study then.  A look at how the majority live, if you will.”

Sherlock sighed. “I am waiting for a phone call, a _very important_ phone call.  Yes it is related to the previous phone call, No you are not permitted to know its contents.  Happy?” 

Mycroft said nothing for a while before conceding  “Maybe not happy, but content for the minute.”  He made to walk away down the corridor but paused before the end.  “I do hope he calls, Sherlock,” he said with an odd note of sincerity in his tone.  Then he walked round the corner and was gone. 

Good riddance, Sherlock thought, flouncing back to his curled up position.  He had been sat by the phone for nearly an hour and nothing.  It would have taken John at least 30 minutes at a run to get back, 10 minutes to find Lestrade.  How long would explaining take?  Then there were plans to be made, people to organise.  If only he was sure of what this entailed, then he could be of some use but instead he was here, left to deal with brothers and mothers and all the _boring_ issues. 

The shrill of the phone stopped his thoughts.

“John?”  If it wasn’t him he was hanging up, Mycroft and Mummy be damned.  Their friends could call back later.  

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

“Are you injured?  What’s happening?” John’s voice sounded slightly wheezy, as if he had just regained his breath. 

“Yeah, about that.  I can’t say because, well, reasons that you don’t want to be involved in.  Actually scrap that, of course you’d like to be involved, you’re you.  That _I_ don’t want you involved in then.”  Something in an unintelligible language was growled and Sherlock was surprised that John answered in the same way.  Then: “Sorry but this is going to have short which is irritating but can't really be prevented.  Sherlock, I need you to know that you are one of the most intelligent, infuriating, stubborn, beautiful, amazing individuals I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and I know that’s soppy and you hate soppy with a passion but I think you really need to hear that.  You need to hear that every day because it’s the truth and no one will ever convince me it’s not.  You’re going to be brilliant Sherlock and someday everyone’s going to know that.  I- I love you Sherlock.  Remember that.  Remember it for me.” 

There were more sounds in the background, someone moving closer to the phone.   Scuffling noises.  Shouts.  Then the line went dead.

“John,” Sherlock choked out, even though he knew he wasn’t there. 

He realised he wasn’t breathing properly but couldn’t remember how to and he was trying and trying but he couldn’t _, just couldn’t_ because John, John needed him and he, what did he need to do?   Right.  Think.  _Think_. 

He released his head from the fingers that had dug into his skull and he snapped up from where he had curled in the chair, practically on the floor. 

He had to get to John.  He had to help him.  He had to solve the mystery. 

Step 1: Call in reinforcements. 

He sprinted up to his room and grabbed a piece of paper from the pile.  Coroner’s report.  He careered back to the phone and stabbed in the numbers. 

“This is Sherlock Holmes.  Get Molly Hooper to the phone _immediately_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention I love a good cliffhanger?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter this time :) Please tell me if this makes any sense (it does in my head but sometimes...) and I hope you enjoy :D

John almost laughed at the symmetry of it.  It seemed only right that the one place that had brought him to Sherlock was going to be the place that drove them apart, permanently.  He was under no illusion of what Moriarty would do to them now; he needed to make an example of what would happen to those who disobeyed and now he had the entire defence force in his grasp.  Add that to his unstable personality and flair from dramatics and it was like watching a ticking time bomb. 

It was odd seeing him again.  He still looked the same with his unusual sharp suit, dark eyes like black holes and black, skeletal wings.  Those wings had given him an infamy that stretched far beyond the village he was born in and subsequently had abandoned.  However, he’d always looked like that, even before, well, _before._  

It was his personality which had changed the most.  When John had first known him, he was still psychotic but there was something beneath that, something that was fighting to get out, something that was Jim.  But _after_ , that piece was now dead.  Moriarty ruled supreme. 

***

_Earlier...._

After he left Sherlock’s house, John had sprinted back through the trees, tripping occasionally in his haste to get back.  For the first time in a while he wished he could use his wings.  When he got to the Defender’s building however, many of the corridors were practically deserted.  _Too late_ , he thought, _he was too late and now Moriarty’s in control_.  _No one’s ever going to forgive me for this, not this time._

“They’ll be outside the Head Office, whoever you’re looking for.”  John whirled round to see a young female Inc grinning at him.  “They reckon they’ve arrested 2 of Moriarty’s guys but after questioning them, the Boss grabbed a few people and haven’t left the office since.  Everyone was wondering what’s going on and so went to go look and now there’s a mob outside his door.”

“So everyone’s okay?”  John allowed himself to breathe properly again.

“Yeah, I think so.  Why wouldn’t they be?” 

“Err nothing, no reason at all.  I’ll just be err yes,” John said and he began jogging over to the back office’s, where the top officers were based.  _Eloquent Watson, real smooth there_. 

The crowd was buzzing and theories were everywhere.  John eavesdropped for a few moments, hearing the usual accusations of this being a hoax, an exaggeration, a government conspiracy.  One person was swearing it was a sign that the world was ending (the same person had stated this at every single event he had ever been to and so no one took much notice, other than to shuffle away slightly as he approached).  It wasn’t long before the door opened and Director Elliot, the Chief Defender himself, walked out and spoke to the crowd who had quickly fallen into silence in his presence. 

“Firstly, thank you all for your patience.  I know you all must be keen to learn about the arrests and their significance.  Secondly, the information from the 2 men points to an attack that will happen in the next hour or so.”  He held up his hands as the crowd burst into conversation.  “Please Ladies and Gentlemen!  Can we try and remain calm?  Now, whether or not this information is true, caution tells us to treat it as accurate and a plan has been put in place that hopefully treats this with the scepticism it deserved.  It is likely a trap that we don’t want to get caught in but our duty tells us that we must investigate this properly.  We would like everyone to return to their bases, apart from the Leaders as they will be briefed and will come to inform you of the situation soon.”  He waved his hands in dismissal and the crowd dispersed. 

John hung back, uncertain of where to go but certain he wanted to be part of the action.  This was partially ( _majorly_ ) his fault after all.  However, when the briefing was finished and the Leaders began rushing to their teams, it appeared that getting back in was more difficult than he first anticipated. 

His first argument was with Steph Martin, the Deputy Head of Recruitment (the official Head was still in meetings with the other Heads of Departments), who he cornered as she was making her way out of the room. 

“I can’t let you back in Watson,” she said, adding notes to an already filled notepad, scribbling down the margin.

“Why not?”

“Well for starters you’re not a Defender John.”

“But I was one!  My scores were some of the best in that year too.”

“How do you know that?” she asked suspiciously and John had the grace to look slightly guilty.

“Someone may have sneaked in and had a look before we were told and that someone may have told me.  But I swear we were only checking that we hadn’t failed entirely.”

“Hmm,” she frowned, glancing over to him.

“Please, I know I can help; I’m a Healer as well and you’re probably going to want at least one on your side,” he argued. 

She sighed.  “You’re lucky I’m far too busy today Watson.  If you can get it cleared from a Leader, you’re in but only for this once mind,” she warned and John thanked her gratefully. 

He then dashed off to see Lestrade who was in something of a panic, being minus 2 members of his team.  This stress perhaps accounted for his answer to John’s question but it was no less surprising. 

“John we can’t just let you back in.”

“Why?  I’ve had the training, I’ve served and Martin said-” John argued, hurrying after him. 

“John, you have to admit that as a while ago mate.  People might question whether you pose a risk out there.”

“Greg, it’s my fault you have to go in the first place.  Please let me help put it right.”

“You really have to stop blaming yourself,” Lestrade said, finally looking over to him and John seized his chance.  Putting on his most pitiful face, he tried for a pleading yet reasonable tone. 

“Please.  I’ll stop talking about it completely, we can all move on, everything fine if you just let me help _now_.”

Lestrade stopped walking and stared at him for a few moments.  Whatever he saw there seemed to crumble his resolve.

“Fine.  Go tell her I vouch for you, as long as you don’t screw up” Lestrade said over John’s ‘Thanks’ and shouted to the retreating figure “and be careful!”

***

Martin put him with a Leader called Carter, a stout, red-faced Inc who perpetually looked 2 seconds away from a coronary.  The shouting probably didn’t help but he seemed, if you focused on his words, to be looking forward to the prospect of what he called ‘a good scrap’.  Luckily in his team was an old friend, Bill Murray, who was surprisingly cheerful about the entire situation.  When John pointed out his odd mood, he explained with a shrug, “It’s been a while since we were actually doing something exciting and with you back on the squad, it’s like old times.”

“But you’re not scared about being stationed with me,” John stated, carefully checking over his protective gear to avoid his friends eyes. 

Murray laughed.  “You aren’t as scary as you thing Watson, but don’t worry, I won’t let the bad men hurt you,” he said and ruffled John’s hair.  John had laughed with him but it was slightly strained. 

“What about them hurting you though?”

“They wouldn’t dare harm such a fine specimen as me.  It would be a crime against Inc’s everywhere,” Bill said, swishing his short hair as best he could and posing. 

“Are you two ready to go or do you need a minute to fix your make up too?” Carter barked at them and both went to go take up their positions.  John couldn’t help but feel a buzz of excitement and adrenaline at being back in the field.  Bill was right; it was just like old times. 

It was a relatively simple strategy.  2 teams would scout out if there was actually any danger and if there was, they would lead Moriarty’s men to a clearing where 2 Tree Divisions would attack from above and 2 foot-teams would join the others to round up from below.  Outnumbered and overpowered Moriarty would have to give in. In theory.  

John was in one of the 2 waiting teams.  He felt the tension flow through him and his hearing heighten.  The magic flowed through his fingers and it reminded him of the power he used to feel when they’d finished a mission.  It reminded him that he was alive. 

It was the silence that first alerted them.  Usually the sound of the forests wildlife was a nice background, utter silence was unnatural.  Both Murray and John exchanged a glance as were most of the others.  Something had gone wrong. 

A flurry of movement from the left.  Then a piercing noise that made John drop to his knees and curl into himself.  The noise, the noise, surrounding him, he was drowning in it.  He needed to get out, get away, and run from that noise that was threatening to pierce his eardrums and split him in two, that was going to kill him if he didn’t get _out_.  Hands were dragging him and he tried batting them away weakly.  Bill’s voice shouting at him.  “Come on, we need to go.” 

Then blissful silence as they tumbled out of its reach. 

His head was hammering and Murray was already hissing down his walkie-talkie but John had one thought.  _He’d forgotten to ring Sherlock_. 

Oh he was so dead. 

Why this was the most important thing in John’s universe at that precise moment, even he couldn’t have told you but it was and so he grabbed his phone from his pocket.  Luckily the number was already saved.  He wasn’t sure why it seemed so imperative to tell Sherlock that he loved him.  Perhaps instinct had kicked in and had decided it was a ‘now-or-never’ type of day.  Perhaps it was because that noise that had threatened to overpower him was still fresh in his mind and was a reminder of the important things.  Whatever had made him talk, he felt a lightness afterwards that left him oddly calm.  Bill on the other hand wasn’t as happy.

“John will you get off your arse and _move_.  We need to get out.”

However, as he scrambled to his feet, his arms and feet were locked together by an invisible force and a deep voice sounded from behind him.  “What do we have here then?  2 boys playing soldier?”

“Moran,” John said through gritted teeth.  The tall, muscled, steel-grey winged Inc strode to stand in between them and his smug grin irked John’s anger even more. 

“Glad you remembered me Watson.  No time to chat though.  The Boss wants a word with _you_.”  He flicked his fingers and they were dragged along behind him.  John had to admit that Moran’s strain of magic was more powerful than the last encounter he’d had with the ex-Defender, turned Moriarty’s-right-hand-man.  Back when he was fighting for the right side of the law, Moran had still be fearsome but it was something about the energy rolling off the man in question that appeared more bright. 

They were led away from the clearing and to the Stones where a day earlier Sherlock had been.  Now, Defender’s were lined up in rows, all in the same situation as John and Bill.  John was placed on the end of the front row, next to a fuming Sally Donavon and Bill was behind him. 

It seemed that they were the last to be rounded up as, moments later Moriarty emerged.  He was at the end opposite to where John was and had proceeded to speak to the crowd at large.

“I’m so glad you all got my message.  I was wondering if you needed another little _incentive_ but when I heard your alarm had gone up today I was so impressed, I decided to start my plan.  You must let me thank my little messenger boys too.”

“What the hell do you want?” Murray shouted out.  He’d always been headstrong and very forthright when speaking which was good at times but John felt he could have at least timed this one better.  Nothing upset Moriarty more than an interruption when he was mid-speech.  His eyes swept over the crowd and for a moment, he locked eyes with John and his lips curled into a feral smile.  

“I am here, because I am _bored_ of your stupid petty rules, bored of your little ‘civilised’ society, bored of constantly _running_ from you,” his voice softened, “when I should have been running _towards_ you and making you dance to my own little tune.  Making you realise that there is another way, a better way.  You can’t deny it works, I mean just look at you all,” he spread his arms wide like a preacher and paced slowly, “All lined up, ready for me to use.  My own toy army set.  But before we can get to _that-_ ”

As he deliberately paused, John knew.  If he were being honest, he knew from the beginning.  Moriarty wasn’t here to take over the Defenders, take over the Village; he could do that anytime.  They were mere pawns in his chess game.  No, the real reason he had come here was to find him, John Watson and _destroy_ him, inch by inch.  The worst part was a tiny, microscopic part of him was wondering if Moriarty was right.  Perhaps this is what he owed and the madman now stood directly in front of him was somehow collecting payment for a past he had tried to forget.  Of course it had to happen while things were looking better; there was no fun in taking over someone who already felt like they’d lost. 

“My dear John, how much I have _missed_ you,” Moriarty hissed so that only he could hear.  John remained silent.  “Are you ready?” 

 _No_. 

“Bring it on.”  His voice really shouldn’t have been that calm.   _How could he be that calm?_   But even Moriarty’s answering snarl couldn’t affect him and as he was led to stand in front of the others and odd contentment spread through him.  _What the hell was wrong with him?_   Here he was on the verge of what promised to be a pretty horrible death and his mind has obviously short circuited somewhere and had decided to go on holiday, leaving him with nothing. 

But _wait,_ he’d felt this numbness before somewhere.  It wasn’t a bad feeling, just disconcerting.  Suddenly, whatever Moriarty was saying wasn’t important anymore, something about punishing those who do you wrong and how he was an example ( _blah, blah, blah, John’s mind helpfully produced which made him want to giggle, which was probably the_ worst _thing he could do_ ) but what was important was finding out when he’d felt this sensation.  It was something to do with the hospital, he was sure of it.  _What was it?_  

However boring John’s mind had found the narcissistic comments previously, Moriarty’s next words grabbed his attention. 

“John, you will be pleased to hear I don’t plan on killing you.  Oh no, my pet, that would be such a waste of talent.  What I _am_ going to do is bring you to heel as it were.  Make you a little bit more...compliant.  You’ve heard of the Legend of Haddon I presume?”  Whatever had been keeping John steady was waning and fear began to trickle in, taking over.  Everyone had heard of the legend of Haddon and so everyone knew what was going to happen.  Many gasped with understanding, some went pale and one person shrieked.  Lestrade, Donovan and Murray all had their eyes directly on him, though none would look into his eyes. 

“If some of you don’t know,” Moriarty continued, clearly enjoying all the panic, “Haddon was said to be a great warrior.  He fought off monsters and beasts all over the land and was celebrated as a hero.  But one day, Haddon went to the Giants house.  Now how would you describe the Giant, John?”

John couldn’t speak.  His throat had closed up and no words would come out.  But if he didn’t voluntarily offer something, Moriarty would be sure to get the words out. 

“Clever,” he croaked out.

“Sorry, could you just repeat that?”

“Clever,” he said, a bit more clearly.  Haddon was just a kids story though wasn’t it?  There was no truth in it, just something to teach a lesson.  Nothing to be afraid of.  Nothing at all.

“Yes, very good John,” Moriarty praised, circling him, “So the Giant came up with a plan.  You see he was very good at creating _potions_ , wasn’t he John?”  A nod sufficed this time.  “Yes and so he created one never seen before, didn’t he?  One that would make Haddon do his bidding _forever,_ while keeping Haddon aware of it.  Sort of like a mind control, where the Giant is in the driver’s seat and Haddon’s just along for the ride.  Anyway, then there’s some boring stuff about Haddon outwitting the Giant by not drinking the potion but what if the Giant hadn’t given him a choice in the first place?”  Moriarty reached into his pocket and John disbelief melted slightly.  He wished that numb, content feeling would come back.

“Now John I think you’ve already guessed what I have here for you” he held up the vial with the dark blue liquid in, “but for those who are slightly less intelligent, why don’t you spell it out for them?”

“Haddon’s poison,” he whispered but it was easily heard as the captives were silent. 

Moriarty planted himself in front of John and his lips twisted into a soft smile which contrasted his eyes which were burning with a cold, relentless fury.  “Exactly.  Took me a while to find it of course but I got there.  As you can see I made some new friends as well.  John Watson, you have no idea how long I have wanted to do this to you, to make you feel like I felt.  Now, are you going to drink your medicine, _Doctor_?” 

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a low angry voice echoed across the clearing.  A voice that should be speaking English but wasn’t.  A voice that shouldn’t have understood a word Moriarty had said, should have no idea of the Inc’s language, but clearly must have, must know. 

Moriarty spun and paused for a moment.  “And you are?”

The body belonging to the voice strode into the light, just to the left of John.  _Still in that bloody coat_ , John thought, subconsciously relaxing at the presence of the one person who really shouldn’t be there.

“Sherlock Holmes.  Who are you?”  Both Moriarty and Sherlock began circling each other, keeping the same distance between them. 

“James Moriarty.  Hi!”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Sherlock quirked and eyebrow and John felt his muscles re-tense.  _If_ they both got out of there, which now looked significantly unlikely, he was going to kill Sherlock for pushing him to his limits.  He’d probably be proud of it, the git.

“Oh another fighter I see.  But where are your wings little one?  Unless,” Moriarty’s eyes narrowed and then widened comically.  “Oh no, it can’t be.  John you can’t have,” he said gleefully, glancing at John’s expression and then continuing.  “Oh but you have!  A human John really, the _nerve_ you have.  As if you hadn’t created enough drama already but this has _got_ to be the best, has to be.” 

“When you’ve finished squealing,” Sherlock drawled, coming to a halt.  Moriarty also stopped and they were back in their original position.  “I’ve come to ask you let these people go.”

“You don’t actually expect that to work do you?” Moriarty asked, looking unsure whether to laugh or commence screaming.

“No, but I was taught to be polite and always remember my manners.”  John almost snorted at the downright lie.  The tension was making him hysterical.  “At least it can go down officially that I asked you nicely.” 

Sherlock smiled. 

“Goodbye Moriarty.  I wish I could say it was a pleasant meeting.  Molly now!” Sherlock yelled and suddenly a flash of bright light enveloped him.  There was a beat where no one moved, nothing happened and John could only stare at the pulsing light. 

Then it burst outwards, covering the clearing, encircling everyone.  Screams, trees snapping, a high pitched buzzing noise all assaulted John’s ears.  He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel, couldn’t move, _couldn’t think_.  There was only one thing. 

“Sherlock!” John screamed.

But the he was falling and everything turned to black.  


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, I am really, really sorry it's taken me this long to update. Life got a bit crazy last week and this chapter was a bit difficult to write so I was a big ball of frustration for a while. This is the last proper chapter but there's a small epilogue to come soon (it's been written, just needs a quick edit). This has been my longest completed fanfic to date and I want to thank everyone for being awesome with their comments and kudos :D I hope you enjoy this chapter! (I warn you it's mainly fluff towards the end).

Sherlock did _not_ want to wake up. 

He wasn’t quite sure _why_ it was a bad idea and he knew that normally the mere _idea_ of sleep was repulsive but right at this second he was certain something was telling him to simply let the darkness pull him back under and rest. 

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, was nothing if not stubborn and so wrenched his eyes open in defiance of his body's wants.

He immediately regretted it.

The sunlight flooded his vision with an unrelenting vengeance which made him curl up into a blanket ball, clenching his eyes shut.  _God that was a stupid idea_.  _But would the effects still be the same if you repeated it?  Did the amount of exposure change someone’s reaction?_  Possibilities for future experiments ran across his brain but for the moment he chose to ignore them.  Wisely, with the pain of his previous experience still fresh in his mind, Sherlock cracked his eyes open underneath the blanket and carefully lowered it so his head was peeking out.  When not using its power against him, Sherlock found that the light and warmth were quite pleasant.  Experimentally he stretched out a little.

He immediately regretted it. 

Clearly he was dying.  It was the only explanation for why moving his limbs caused shoots of pain to spread over his body, making him achy and miserable. 

“Oh for God’s sake,” he huffed, rolling onto his back slowly, just as the door to his bedroom opened.  Unfortunately he couldn’t see who it was from the angle he was laying at but he took an educated guess. 

“Mycroft if you’ve just come to gloat,” he mumbled before the jumper clad figure came into view.  Sherlock couldn’t speak.  The words he was about to utter were jammed in his throat and it was like he was choking, choking on words that should weave themselves together but they wouldn’t, they couldn’t because _John is here_. 

“Sherlock?” John hurried to kneel next to the bed and ran a cautious hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“John,” Sherlock croaked out.  John beamed at the sound of his voice though a hint of worry still touched his eyes. 

“You had us all worried for a moment there,” John said, laughing slightly, though more to himself than to Sherlock. 

“Why would you be-” he cut off his own question as his eyes focused on more and saw the cut across John’s left cheek, the bruise above his right eye and his overall bedraggled appearance that suggested exhaustion.  There was something else too, something that screamed ‘not right’ but he brushed it aside.  It would probably be obvious when he knew of course but that was for later.

The events that took place yesterday ( _had to be, judging by the light then compared to now_ ) hit him hard and his eyes snapped shut as the thoughts attacked his mind. 

John.  The Pictures.  M.  The Phone Call.  Ringing Molly.  Planning.  Moriarty.  Explosion.  Screaming.  Darkness. 

All fought for prime position and attention in his brain and for a moment Sherlock was drowning in them.  A gentle hand on his cheek, another in his hair, pulled him back to earth, to his room, to John.

“Sherlock?” John asked, trying to appear calm.  Sherlock gasped as he opened his eyes once again.

“John, yesterday, I-” he started but was interrupted by John’s steady voice.

“We don’t have to talk about that right now, not if you aren’t ready too,” he soothed. 

“No, I _want_ to,” Sherlock explained, attempting to sit up and failing miserably as pain hit his lower back.  John lowered him back down. 

“Easy now, you don’t want to overreach yourself,” he said, as if talking to a startled animal.  Sherlock huffed eloquently, crossing his arms but allowed the strokes in his hair to continue.  He might as well get something out of this mollycoddling. 

“I’m fine you know,” he attempted but John snorted.

“Yeah, right,” he laughed.

“Well I’m not as distressed as you’re making me out to be.  A few painkillers and I’ll be fine and then we can talk.”

At first John seemed amused but at the mention of talking his good humour vanished. 

“We don’t have to.”

“I really think we do,” Sherlock insisted which caused John to sigh and scrub his hands over his face.  Putting a hand on John’s shoulder, Sherlock asked “What happened out there after I blacked out?” 

John wouldn’t look at him and kept on fidgeting with the blankets and sheets on Sherlock’s bed.

“We all blacked out for a few moments.  I was only out for a few seconds though and there were others awake too.  Moriarty was, well he’s not coming back that’s for sure.  You were-“ he took a steadying breath, “You looked so pale Sherlock, lying there.  I was worried that you were- that whatever you’d done had backfired and that you had gone too.  When I knew you were still breathing though, I brought you back here.  Everyone else has been on clean up duty I think.”  He paused in his speech for a moment before looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes.  “What the hell did you do out there Sherlock?  What were you _thinking_?” he demanded angrily. 

Sherlock sat back, incredulous and annoyed at the anger.  Surely he deserved praise for saving everyone.  “I was thinking about _you_.  You were clearly in trouble and required assistance and so I called Molly-”

“Wait, Molly?  Molly-the-Mortician-Molly?  Wouldn’t hurt a fly Molly?  How did you even get her number?” John interrupted.

“Yes of course that Molly.  How many mutual Molly’s do we know?  I got the office number from the coroner's report.  Now do you wish for me to carry on or are you going to keep interrupting?”  John almost spoke again but stopped himself ( _this was partially to do with actually listening but mainly to do with a pointed eyebrow raise from Sherlock_ ). 

“So,” Sherlock began again with flourish, “I spoke to Molly.  She can be quite enlightening when she isn’t fluttering around Lestrade you know.”  Sherlock’s eyes distanced themselves, their focus shifting as he retraced his memory’s footsteps and his hands crept into their position, pointed underneath his chin.  “Can also move fast when under pressure; she was here in only a few moments.”  Moments which he distinctly remembered as feeling like minutes, spent pacing by his window.  “She had a book with her; something you may be familiar with.  It never occurred to me that some magic would have been forbidden but knowing societies ridiculous devotion to rules, it should have been obvious.  I’m blaming you for distracting me from that.”  Although he registered John’s intake of breath at the mention of ‘forbidden’, Sherlock couldn’t have stopped talking if he wanted too, his mouth running as if it had a mind of its own.  “Irritatingly she refused to perform the charm herself, something about her morals,” Sherlock waved off the vague statement, “But she apparently had no problem in leasing me some of her magic which I think tells you a lot- What?”  John had gone very pale and was looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. 

“You do realise you can’t just, what was it, ‘lease out magic’?  It’s not _possible_ ,” he stated which Sherlock thought was rather idiotic of him as clearly it _was_ possible because _Sherlock had just proved that it could_. 

“Molly is not a regular Inc John.  You’ve known her longer than I have; surely you noticed there was something unusual about her wing colour?  It practically _glowed_.  I thought it could be useful in some way and luckily my hypothesis proved correct.  The secret is that they can give certain amounts of magic to anyone they chose, _including_ humans, though they kept it very quiet, probably don’t want to get mobbed I expect.  Now hush, I’ve nearly finished.  Molly insisted that we save the actual full power until I needed it, though she allowed me to practice with some simpler spells.”  Sherlock decided to leave out Molly’s ( _and his_ ) doubts over whether this would work properly.  Molly had quickly detailed a list of no fewer than 15 things that could go wrong until Sherlock had silenced her with a glare.  He hadn’t ever thought about the powers of positive thinking but there was always a first time for everything and Sherlock could still feel the thrum of purpose in his veins: _Protect John.  That’s all you need to do.  Protect John_.  “We managed to get to the clearing just in time and from the small sample Molly gave me previously I was able to understand your language.  It’s rather fascinating John, very intricate in its style and formation.  You’ll have to teach me at some point.  The rest you know, Molly transferred her magic, I performed the spell and, although some people may have been injured in the process, Moriarty is no longer an issue which I count as a success,” he finished smugly.  “Which leads onto _my_ question for _you_ : What happened between you and Moriarty?”  It was perhaps a bit blunt but Sherlock had never been known for taking the tactful route with these things.  His curiosity, which had been growing since the ‘M’ picture incident, was now clawing its way through his system and was proving especially difficult to delete. 

John seemed to have momentarily lost his voice.  His expression wasn’t particularly helpful either, closed off but his hand was fisted in the sheets and Sherlock felt a sudden queasy feeling in his gut. 

“John?” he asked.  Hard eyes found his.  John made a few attempts to speak before words finally came out.

“I can’t believe you Sherlock.  What if you had been hurt?  What if you had been killed?  What would your family have thought?”  His questions, spoken in a chillingly soft, angry tone and with complete disregarding Sherlock’s own question ( _which he filed away for later_ ), set off a light bulb in Sherlock’s mind.  John had a protective streak himself.  Sherlock had put himself in danger.  John was unable to help.  Fear and guilt achieved. 

“You can’t honestly say you wouldn’t have done the same.  If our roles were reversed you would have done _exactly_ as I have,” Sherlock defended.  John looked ready to argue back but Sherlock continued.  “Also I _am_ safe and I’m certain I’m not dead.  I wouldn’t be this uncomfortable for a start.”  His joke was ignored. 

“Sherlock you _knew_ I didn’t want you out there but you still went anyway.  How do you think that made me feel?” John was less tense and more tired, his anger having burned up in a few seconds.  Sherlock leaned forward to press their foreheads together. 

“I was worried about you.  That doesn’t happen often and I reacted out of instinct.  I apologise for scaring you.”  The apology flowed easily, much to Sherlock’s surprise.  In response, John moved his hands until one was once again in a tangle of curls and the other was wrapped around Sherlock’s back.  The awkward angle hurt a bit but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care much as he returned the half-hug.  He pulled back sharply however, upon resting his hands on John’s back.

“John, where are you wings?”

The flicker of emotions on John’s face was too quick for even Sherlock to capture, fogged as his mind was, by this new input.  John settled for a weak smile.

“Yeah.  Your little spell had some...side effects.  Only Inc’s within a certain radius mind, I’m fairly sure everyone else is okay apart from me and a few of Moriarty’s henchmen.”

“But where _are_ they?”

John appeared to steel himself before saying, “I don’t have wings anymore Sherlock.  To be perfectly honest I don’t know whether I still have any magic in me at all.  I wasn’t able to heal you but that might just have been because of the confusion between whether you were magic or not.”

John might not be magic anymore, John didn’t have any wings anymore, John couldn’t heal anymore and it was his fault.  Sherlock had never truly experienced the full crippling sensation of guilt and now he wished he never had to again.  It was horrifying, like his insides were mangling together ( _a scientific impossibility_ ) and his body was screaming at him for being such an _idiot_ ( _an unfortunate truth_ ).  It was a wonder John was still here and bothering to even talk to him. 

“John I am so, so sorry.  I never-” Sherlock didn’t even realise he was apologising for the second time in 10 minutes, a feat never acheived before. 

“Hey, it’s not your fault.  Well, it sort of is but you never meant it and I suppose that’s what we should focus on.  Anyway I thought you wanted to hear about me and Moriarty.”  John was distracting him again but the curiosity made his insides unravel slightly.  He shifted slightly, making a clear invitation.  John stood up and went round to the unclaimed side of the bed, comfortably stretching out and taking Sherlock’s right hand. 

“Thanks.  Your floor isn’t comfortable you know.  Haven’t you ever heard of carpet?”

“Chemical and blood stains are much more difficult to deal with though.  At least the wood makes interesting patterns.”  It was good to hear John’s laugh; he had been told many times that his brand of humour was too obscure for normal people.  Then again, John wasn’t normal at all, which made him infinitely more exciting. 

“So where do you want me to start?”

“I believe people’s stories usually begin at the beginning.”

“All right smart-arse.  So, you already know that the Inc’s are similar to you in that they can start training to be Defender’s at 16 right?” Sherlock nodded, turning to bury his face in John’s chest, prompting a hand to begin lazily stroking his back.  “So that’s what I did.  Also managed to get my Healer credentials early because of my enhanced abilities which was nice.  By the time I was 18 I was ready to go out on actual patrols.  That’s where I met Moriarty for the first time.  He was in my team, had a bit of a reputation for being a troublemaker but nothing startlingly bad.  He was actually alright back then, if you can believe it.  By the time a year had past I considered him a close friend.”  Sherlock noticed and noted the wistful tone that John was speaking in and detected the change in tension as he continued.  “But that didn’t last forever.  Our leader was a guy called Carl Powers.  He was very cautious and didn’t like to take risks on things.  This caused him to clash with Moriarty a lot who liked impulsive actions; the bigger the risk the better it was to him.  I think he liked the adrenaline rush, the high of not getting caught.  Probably why we were such good friends.  He was a bit like you but not in a bad way,” he clarified as Sherlock opened his mouth to argue.  “He was clever, could see through things very quickly and made judgments.  Powers couldn’t see that though and thought he was just being argumentative for the sake of it, which for a while he was, to be honest.  These arguments grew bigger and bigger until Moriarty pulled me over one night and explained that he and a bunch of mates were going to deal with Powers ‘once and for all’.  Everyone knew Moriarty would be promoted.  He asked whether or not I was in and I told him” John took a deep breath, “I told him I’d think about it.  That was the first time I saw the Moriarty you know come out.  He said I either go with them or he’d have to kill me too, use me as collateral damage I suspect.”  Sherlock’s hand twitched to reach out and comfort him but if he touched him, John might lose the trance like state he was in and stop speaking.  He wondered whether this was what he looked like upon entering his mind palace. 

“So I had a choice.  I either kept quiet and alive and let Moriarty take control or I could go and tell someone but end up dead in the process.  I know it sounds horrible but it was a difficult choice.  Just before the plan was put in action, I felt terrible, went to go find the Chief Director and told him everything.  They managed to reach Powers in time and everyone involved got arrested apart from Moriarty.  His mates told us he was creating a little underground network in the Black Market too.  We couldn’t find him anywhere until _he_ found _me_ about a day later.  Shot me with a burning spell in the left wing, making it useless but before he could do anything the alarms went off and he had to run.  He promised he’d return to finish me later and I’ve been waiting for about a year now.  Knew he’d find me at some point.  I got discharged from the force, not that anyone trusted me anymore.  They knew I was friends with Moriarty for a while and so thought I could be a spy on the inside.  I reckon _you_ surprised him though.  The rest you know; Moriarty went off to find a way of controlling me, came back, you got him and now we’re here.”

John sighed as he finished speaking and silence descended over the pair. 

“Sherlock?” John asked worriedly as the silence stretched on.

“Give me a moment,” Sherlock replied distantly.  His mind was processing the information, fixing pieces together.  It explained Sally’s hostility, Lestrade’s familiarity, Molly’s sympathy.  It explained why John kept to himself and explained Moriarty’s words.  There was one thing that hadn’t been explained though. 

“What about your sister?”

“I’m sorry?”  John sounded surprised at the question but why Sherlock wasn’t sure.  Wasn’t it the logical jump?

“Your sister.  You never answered what happened to her.”  Wasn’t it obvious what he meant? 

“Oh that.  Well it doesn’t so bad in comparison.  She was basically off the rails and getting worse until we had a huge fight a few years ago over me going out on patrols as a Defender because she said it was too dangerous.  I may have said some stuff I didn’t mean but some of it I did.  She ran off and hasn’t been back since though we keep in touch over the phone.”

“I wish that would happen to Mycroft.”  He could ignore the phone calls easily, although the CCTV surveillance was an issue. 

“So you’re not bothered by any of that then?” John said hopefully. 

“No.  You made the right choice in the end and it’s in the past now anyway so there’s no use in dwelling on it.”  Some of it did bother him, though it was mainly the idea of John being injured or hurt in anyway and Sherlock had an inclination that wasn’t what John was getting at. 

“That’s oddly profound of you Sherlock,” John said sounding impressed.

“I can be at times.”  Again the silence fell over them and both relaxed into a doze, Sherlock snuggled into John’s chest ( _although he would insist later that Holmes’_ never _‘snuggle’_ ). 

“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling content for the first time in a long while.  Normally he would be seething at being bedridden for more than a few moments but with John’s warm presence Sherlock found it slightly worrying how easy it was to get used to.  Not worrying enough to stop mind.  At his words, John had tensed again.

“About that.  I did go back briefly to pick up a few things and- I don’t think I’m going back.”

“What?” Sherlock shifted so he could look at John’s face.

“I’m practically human now.  Your mum’s even given me some of those ridiculous jeans you wear.”  Sherlock had noted the pyjama bottoms John was sporting as well as his habitual jumper but had decided not to comment.  “I was getting bored in the village anyway and now I have a reason to get free.  Do something different.”

“You’re staying here though.” Sherlock stated.  John couldn’t be allowed to leave, especially when Sherlock was in no fit shape ( _he was loathe to admit_ ) to follow. 

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon.  Your mum said it was okay and I was going to check with you but it appears I don’t have to ask that question now do I?” John grinned. “I met your brother too,” he added casually.

“Oh god, he didn’t interrogate you did he?”

“Does he do that?  He seemed okay, a bit like he’s got a stick up his arse most of the time but okay.  Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure.”  Well if John wasn’t locked up in a military base then Mycroft must approve to a certain degree as well.  Not that Sherlock needed his approval but it would mean something to John and Mummy. 

Sherlock relaxed again and clung on slightly tighter.  A small kiss was pressed to his forehead and a hand came up to stroke his hair.  He felt the edges of sleep creep up on him and as much as he tried to resist, his eyes fluttered closed.

An hour later, Mycroft would appear in the doorway to find the pair fast asleep.  John was spread out, one foot dangerously close to falling of the bed, hands wrapped around Sherlock’s back.  Sherlock himself had one arm flung across John, the other pillowing his head.  With a small smile, that _no one_ was ever to see, the future British Government threw a blanket over them and pulled the door shut on his way out.  Perhaps he’d check in again later... he still had some questions for that John boy if he was going to become a permanent resident.

The boys didn’t awake at the interruption for in their small bubble it was only them.  There was no point in wasting sleep, as they had tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next...


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can believe it this was only supposed to be a one-shot magic au that was inspired by the flower crowns on tumblr. Instead it turned out to be a fluffy with a side of angst and my longest fanfic to date. I want to thank everyone that has read, commented, kudos: you are all awesome! I hope you enjoy this last little bit :D

_1 year later:_

“I don’t see why we need so much stuff.”

“John we need sufficient supplies to live.  As a Doctor-in-training I would hope you would realise this.”

“Yes but since when has your experiment on beetles become a part of the necessities of life?”

“Since yesterday.”

John sighed as he followed the coat wielding Sherlock into _their_ new flat. 

“You’re going to love London John.  I can feel it,” Sherlock said for the 9th time, forgetting his hatred of repetition.

“I already do,” he replied, putting his cushion on the chair that he had earmarked as his back at the estate.  He was excited that Mrs Holmes had let him keep it.  “I’ve been here before you know,” he said, going into the kitchen, allowing Sherlock to fuss with his things that were already in the space.  Sherlock had moved in a week ago at the beginning of his first year of University.  John could still remember the conversation about whether he was going into Halls or not at which Sherlock had scoffed at and “I’ll be sharing a flat with John, obviously” which came as a shock to everyone else in the room, including John who had no memory of that agreement ( _mainly because there hadn’t been one_ ).

“Yes but that wasn’t proper London.  That was boring sight-seeing.  John will you just put that down and _hurry up_.”  John sighed and dumped the box of kitchen supplies in said room ( _the box would not be looked in for another 6 weeks until Sherlock trips over it in a spectacular attempt to wrestle the biscuit tin off of John, who will be holding them hostage after an experiment dyes his favourite jumper purple_ ).

“I wish you’d just tell me what it is.”

“It wouldn’t be a surprise then would it?” Sherlock explained with an exaggerated eye-roll. “Now come on.”  He bounded for the stairs to the upper floor room and John followed at a more sedate pace.  Sherlock was practically buzzing while stood outside the door. 

“Hurry up, hurry up,” he whined.

“I’m coming; just give a guy a chance will you?” John grumbled but picked up his pace slightly. 

When they were both cramped on the landing and John was about to complain about the lack of space, Sherlock flung the door open and strode in.  The words died in John’s throat.

“So, what do you think?” Sherlock turned expectantly, as John adventured into the room after him.

The room had been converted into something resembling a forest, with small trees, plants and leaves decorating the room.  The walls were a dark green and the ceiling a dark blue, giving it the feel of night time. 

“You said that sometimes you missed your old home and London isn’t known for its greenery so I thought this could provide an alternative, if you wished.”  Sherlock sounded nervous, presumably because John hadn’t spoken yet.  However, he couldn’t find the words to describe what he was feeling and so dragged Sherlock down into a fierce kiss instead, cutting off Sherlock’s next sentence.

“It’s perfect.  You’re perfect,” John said his eyes blazing.

“I know,” Sherlock said smugly. “I’ll leave you to settle in, my lecture is soon.”

As Sherlock hit the stairs, John appeared in the doorway. “Sherlock.  Thank you,” he said with as much sincerity as he could.

“You’re welcome.  This is our home now and we can do what we like with it.  Though I would appreciate if you didn’t tell Mummy.  Or Mycroft.  Or the landlady.  In fact, we can simply keep this between us for now.” he smiled before going to grab his bag, clearly happy in his decision.

 _Home_.  John mulled over the word.  The estate hadn’t been called home.  Sherlock had christened it many other names (mainly things to do with hell or captivity) but never home before.  This place though, 221B...

He could get used to calling this home.  Sherlock’s words rang in his ears.

 _“Our home_.” 

John found himself giggling while gazing at the inky coloured ceiling.

Yeah, he could defiantly get use to that.  

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments (and if you liked this kudos), I'd love to hear what you guys think of this :)
> 
> Also come say hey on tumblr sometime: http://www.tumblr.com/blog/dinosaursdontplaypianos *runs away from shameless self promotion*
> 
> Thanks!


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